Traduttore, Traditore
by Signy1
Summary: When attempting to make a man's acquaintance, heavy cell doors and cement walls are child's play compared to language barriers. But face it; when the men in question are Cpls LeBeau and Newkirk, where *would* they meet but in the cooler? Two prisoners, both emotionally raw, are going to need each other if they're going to have any chance of surviving... whether they like it or not.
1. Chapter 1

[Dialogue in regular print is to be understood as being spoken in English. Dialogue in _italics_ is to be understood as perfect, fluent French. Dialogue consisting of horribly-phoneticized attempts at very bad French are to be read as such; Newkirk is not, at this stage in the game, particularly good at any language other than his own. Bold text is German. The title phrase, 'Traduttore, Traditori' is Italian… because what we really needed was another language… and means 'The translator is a traitor.']

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The small man had put up one hell of a fight, and Newkirk took off his metaphorical hat to him, but these sort of affairs only ever ended the one way, and the sound of the cell door slamming shut on the newest addition to their happy little family was appallingly final. It wasn't the sort of thing that improved with familiarity, but the first time in the solitary cells was a special sort of horror. Poor sod.

The guard's jackbooted footsteps echoed on the concrete as he stormed away. Krauts never seemed to walk if they could help it, not if they could stamp, stride or strut instead. Was it the boots that made a man want to stomp angrily around, Newkirk wondered, or was it simply that the sort of man who wore them was the type to stomp anyway? Chicken or the egg, really. Which came first, the Nazi or the nasty?

Tabling that little bit of philosophical inquiry for later—God knew there was plenty of 'later' to look forward to in here—he took a deep breath and shouted as loudly as he could.

"Oi! Kriegie, can you 'ear me? You all right in there?"

 _"What did you call me, you English barbarian?"_ LeBeau would be the first to admit that it wasn't the friendliest greeting of which he was capable, but it had been a truly horrible day, and he felt entitled to a little show of ill-temper, especially given the fact that there was a fairly good chance that the Englishman wouldn't understand him in any case. And shouting at someone—anyone—was oddly satisfying.

"Anglay! Right, I know that one. That's 'English,' that is. Parley-voo anglay?"

" _Good God. I knew the English were illiterates, but this is ridiculous."_ LeBeau scowled at the wall and the voice wafting through it. " _Leave me alone, you buffoon; I'm not interested in anything you have to say. And stop butchering my language; France has suffered enough from this war without that final insult!"_

"Charming. Sounds like a no on the English. Guess we'll 'ave to start from scratch. Bonjore, kriegie. Common tally-voo?"

Silence.

"Yeah, well, kriegie, it's 'ard, I know. We've all been there. Can't blame you for not wanting to talk about it. That's all right."

Silence.

Newkirk soldiered on. "Look, I can't keep calling you 'kriegie,' now can I? You've got to 'ave a name… wait, I remember the word. Apellay… er, no. Jim apell Newkirk, all right? Neewwkirrrk. 'Ow about you, then? I mean, quell, um, quell apellay-voo?"

More silence… then, finally, "I've heard parrots who could speak better than that. Your French is a crime."

Newkirk chuckled. "Daresay it is, and you've already 'eard most of what I know. You'll 'ave to teach me more."

"Why should I?"

"You 'ave anything better to do? Don't know about you, but I sure don't 'ave any pressing appointments on me calendar."

LeBeau thought about that, conceded the basic truth of it without surrendering an iota of his disinclination to play tutor to an English fool. His curiosity, however… "You call me 'kriegie.' What does it mean, this word?"

"Oh, that. Serves me right for bringing a third language into the mix. It's not an insult, 'onest it's not. It's Kraut for 'prisoner of war.' You and me, everyone else 'ere at the 'Itler 'Ilton, we're all kriegies. Short for 'kriegsgefangener.' Jerries sure do like words that all but break your jaw trying to say them, don't they?"

LeBeau understood perhaps a third of that, but he nodded once, lowering his hackles. Not an insult. Not a particularly flattering truth, perhaps, but he could hardly deny his status. "I see. Oui, I am a prisoner. Free French Air Force. Corporal Louis LeBeau."

"RAF, Corporal Peter Newkirk. Pleasure to meet you, mate, even if I can't say much for the circumstances."

" _A pleasure to meet you, too, I suppose._ " LeBeau smiled, somewhat begrudgingly, but sincerely. He might be trapped in this dungeon waiting to be shot, questioned, or tortured, probably not in that order, with his only companion being an Englishman who was doing to his language what the _Bosche_ were doing to his country, but perhaps talking was preferable to staring at the ceiling. "You must learn to speak correctly. Not 'bonjore.' _Bonjour._ Say it."

A week or two later, as they got more comfortable with the languages, and were well on their way to creating a French-English hybrid that would have given a linguist apoplexy, they'd learned a bit more about each other. LeBeau, for instance, was a chef. Newkirk was a magician. (He didn't feel the need to mention any of his other talents. At least, not yet.) LeBeau was Parisian, Newkirk was London to the core. It transpired that they held amazingly similar opinions on girls, Germans, girls, their current residence, and girls. Oh, and, as the guards found out, they both liked to argue.

They argued a lot.

A _lot_.

"Newkirk, you are _a complete barbarian,_ and probably _out of your mind_ as well _._ How could you possibly _compare a_ _quiche_ to a steak and kidney pie? I am _becoming ill_ just thinking of it. Is there not _a working set of taste buds_ anywhere in _your dreadful country_?"

"Kesker say, Louie? Didn't catch much of that, but what I did 'ear sounded a bit less than complimentary."

" _Dear God_ , Newkirk, that accent! _For the thousandth time_ , idiot, it is ' _qu'est-ce que c'est_.' Not 'kesker say!' Are you not listening?"

"Oh, I'm listening, all right, and when you finally get around to making sense, I'll be waiting right 'ere."

" _Making sense? If that's what we're waiting for, we're screwed. I'm still waiting for you to stop spewing bullshit and say something sensible, and, two weeks in, I'm starting to think I'm wasting my time—"_

"Okay, mate, I 'eard _merde_ in there, which is usually my cue to ignore you till you stop using language that would make your old mum faint—"

The guards exchanged weary glances. One said, " **How much longer until we can be rid of them? I'm going deaf.** "

" **Today is Tuesday, yes? That means… seventeen more days.** " Richter winced. " **Perhaps the Kommandant can be persuaded to either shorten their sentence or issue ear plugs to all guards.** "

" **Or gag the two of them before the entire battalion deserts,** " Voight growled. " **The Geneva Convention applies to us, too, after all.** "

" **I say we shut them both up. Which one do you want?"**

 **"The irritating one."**

" **Funny. You take the little one. I'll handle the Englander.** "

Richter was halfway to Newkirk's cell before the other guard could object to the assignment; LeBeau had left a definite impression on him when he had first been brought into camp, and some of the bruises had been visible for a week. The Englander was a pest and a nuisance, but at least he didn't bite.

Newkirk scrambled to his feet as the door swung open, his eyes wary. Richter's hand was already on his truncheon, and when the annals of fluffy teddy bears came to be written, his name would be conspicuous by its absence.

"Achtung, Englander!"

"Yes sir. Achtung-ing as ordered, sir."

"Silence!" Richter snarled. "You will be silent!"

"Yes sir. Silent, sir."

"No talking! Too loud! Verboten!"

"Right, sir. Verboten. Completely understand, sir; me mum always did say that I couldn't keep me mouth shut if me life depended on it… which it would seem it does, sir... but I do 'ope you'll accept me apologies for the racket, and let bygones be—"

And it might have ended there; a bit of penitent babbling, a bit of cringing to make the man feel important, and hey presto! The guard would have relieved his feelings with a few more shouted orders for quiet and maybe a cuff around the ear, and gone away. Ten months in, Newkirk could have written a book on the care and feeding of Kraut egos.

Maybe he should have. And sent LeBeau a copy. Because from what he could hear of the proceedings, it seemed that LeBeau could have used a bit of expert tutelage. The sounds from the next cell were rapidly graduating from 'scuffle' to 'fracas,' and that was not going to end well for anyone concerned.

"Kamerad, LeBeau! Say 'kamerad,' mate! Diss-le, manetennent!" Newkirk was no longer even pretending to pay attention to the increasingly irritated guard standing in the doorway. Someone down the hall let out a pained yelp; impossible to say who. And it was stupid—suicidal, even—but Newkirk shoved Richter aside and darted into the next cell before he could think better of it.

LeBeau was just picking himself off the ground, mouth bleeding, fists at the ready and eyes blazing hot enough that by rights he should have set fire to his eyebrows. Voight was doubled over, in no condition to pay much attention to his surroundings; LeBeau didn't seem to feel that Marquis of Queensbury rules applied, and had taken the phrase 'hitting below the belt' entirely literally.

But Voight had backup, and Voight had a firearm, and Voight now had a very good reason to deal with the situation in a lethal fashion. All Newkirk had was a split second's head start, a self-preservation instinct that had long since gone into hibernation, and a surge of adrenaline; he leapt onto the guard's back and brought them both crashing to the ground.

Richter, his weapon drawn, was in the doorway a heartbeat later, shouting in rapid German; it was probably something to the effect that they were in deep trouble, and that if they didn't stop fighting immediately, they'd be in even deeper. Six feet deeper, to be exact.

Newkirk rolled away from Voight, lifted his hands as the German—with, he had to admit, some minor justification—kicked him hard in the gut. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Kamerad?" He shot a quick look at LeBeau. "Both of us. Both kamerad. See?"

Richter, who, it would seem, knew a good idea when he saw one, kicked him again, let off another spate of German that was almost certainly not an invitation to high tea, and slammed the cell door shut on the two of them.

" _Are you mad? What is wrong with you, you cretin? You could have been killed!"_

"Sorry, Louie. Try that again, a bit slower, would you?" Newkirk, one arm wrapped around his middle, got to his feet. "Bloody Krauts."

"You… what did you do that for? Stupid!"

"'E would've killed you if I 'adn't distracted 'im. And then who'd've taught me to speak French?" Newkirk forced himself to grin, to keep his voice light. The adrenaline was fading, and it wasn't leaving anything pleasant behind. "Besides, mate, this way, until the tossers figure out that putting two people into solitary together rather defeats the purpose, we won't 'ave to wreck our throats shouting."

"I do not need _a nursemaid or a guardian angel,_ you coward," LeBeau said, not fooled and not distracted. "If I choose to fight back rather than crawl, I do not need rescue."

"Yeah, mate, you'd've made a brave picture, lying 'ere in your cell with your 'ead a yard from your body. Done old Paris proud, that would—"

That was when LeBeau punched him.

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Author's note: This is an expansion of a scene in a previous story. (Freedom, Hanging By A Thread.) It takes place in late 1940 or early 1941, before any of the Americans were even in the war, let alone captured. No knowledge of that story is really necessary; suffice it to say that Newkirk is in pretty bad shape, and Lebeau isn't much better off. They're getting off to a somewhat volatile start, but give them some time...

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*Translated from Newkirkese to French to English. His accent really is appalling.

Parley-voo anglay?— Parlez-vous anglais?— Do you speak English?

Bonjore. Common tally-voo?— Bonjour. Comment allez vous?— Hello. How are you?

Jim apell Newkirk. Quell apellay-voo?— Je m'appelle Newkirk. Quel appellez-vous?— My name is Newkirk. What call you? (This is very, very butchered. If you are not in a POW camp shouting through a cement wall, there are better ways to ask a person's name.)

Kesker say— qu'est-ce que c'est— what's that

Diss-le manetennent— dis-le, maintenant— say it, now


	2. Chapter 2

As before, plain text is English, italicized is French, bold is German. And also as before, Newkirk's French is still criminally bad, and is glossed at the end of the chapter.

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In his heart, LeBeau knew that he was being vastly unfair. It wasn't really even Newkirk he was truly angry with, or at least, he was not the one with whom he was angriest. The list of people with whom he was angry was not short, and of all the people on that ever-increasing list, Newkirk was probably the one who least deserved to be attacked. LeBeau was angry with the Germans. All of them. Soldiers or civilians, young or old, he wouldn't have shed a tear if the entire country simply vanished overnight, and the same went for the Vichy collaborators. (Simply vanishing overnight was too good for most of them, in fact, but he was willing to settle for what he could get.) He was angry with his crewmates for being shot down; he was angry with them for dying and leaving him alone. He was angry with himself for having survived when all his friends had not; somehow, it seemed a betrayal. He was angry with God for letting any of it happen.

He was angry with the guard who had barged in to silence him, contemptuous and threatening, and he was angry with himself for letting himself be goaded, and he was angry with Newkirk for saving him, for having had to save him, and for getting himself hurt in the process. The last thing LeBeau needed was another comrade-in-arms to die in his place while he, himself, lived to enjoy the dubious privileges of survivor's guilt and nightmares.

He had been scared when the guard had struck him, but then, he had been frightened since the moment his plane had been hit, since the moment of his capture. He was furious with himself for being afraid. He was so desperate for human contact that he had latched onto the only friendly voice he had heard in weeks, and he did so despite himself, because the last thing he wanted was another friend, another ally, another inevitable loss. He was angry with Newkirk for offering a friendship that would only lead to another broken heart. He was angry with himself for reciprocating.

He was also angry with Newkirk for groveling before the Germans, for insisting that he grovel as well. He was angry that it had worked. Was this really what his life had become? Cells, chains, barbed wire, and impotent helplessness? Purchasing his life, minute by minute, at the cost of his dignity and his self-respect? Was he becoming, not a defender, but a _liability_ to his country? Never! Death was preferable—and Newkirk had taken even that away from him, too!

He was angry, he was ashamed, he was resentful. He was frightened, and he was grieving, and he was guilt-ridden. He was… what was he? No longer a chef, no longer a soldier, no longer free… was he even still LeBeau? He was a prisoner, next best thing to a ghost, entirely at the Nazis' nonexistent mercy, and he knew even as he lashed out that it was not Newkirk he wanted to hurt.

But there was no one else, ( _no, no one else, he was alone, would always be alone,_ ) and he channeled all the pain, all the misery squarely at a man he knew did not in the least deserve it. And he was angry with himself for that, too.

Newkirk had backpedaled a step or two, obviously seeing stars for a moment, but he stayed upright. He wiped his chin with the back of a hand, glanced at the blood smear, and dismissed it as irrelevant. "All right, then," he said. His voice was low, calm, and, somehow, suddenly dangerous. The dry amusement, the half-serious hectoring and teasing complaints, all were entirely vanished. "That one was free. A cellwarming gift, shall we say? Next time, well, Katie bar the door, is all."

LeBeau didn't understand a word of that, although the message was certainly clear enough; it seemed as though Newkirk was not going to hit him back, which surprised him. He looked—really _looked—_ at the other man for the first time. His first thought was that he looked like death, not even warmed over. He was painfully, cruelly, thin, and two weeks of unshaven beard could not disguise the hollowness of his cheeks or the sunken eyes. His skin was a pallid, unhealthy white, with hints of blue beneath his fingernails and shadowing his eyes. His uniform might have fit, once; now it hung on him like a scarecrow's rags. There was an odd mixture of desperation and resignation in his eyes, but there was nothing submissive in his body language anymore. It was not—at all—how he had pictured the man when he had been nothing but a voice and an argument, and it was certainly nothing like the cowed prisoner who had been begging for mercy less than five minutes before.

"You're less than chuffed to be 'ere. Understood. You're not in the market for a china; fair enough. You're about ready to throw in the towel. And who am I to stand in your way?" Newkirk shrugged. "You're 'ardly the only one, kriegie. It's your business and none of mine."

More words he could not really translate with a meaning he could nonetheless understand. One word stood out from the others, though; the sudden demotion from 'Louie' back to 'kriegie' was like a bucket of ice water, and LeBeau felt the anger draining out of him in the shock of it.

" _I… I am sorry. I am so sorry,_ " LeBeau faltered. " _I don't know what I was thinking._ "

Newkirk just smiled. It was a comfortable, familiar mask, and if it didn't reach his eyes, he didn't much care. "None, none. _Je_ swee dessulay. You 'andle your war any way you choose. Not my place to interfere, and I'll be out of your 'air as soon as the next shift figures out I'm in 'ere, like enough. For now… I think I'll 'ave a bit of a kip. Pleasant dreams, and bone swore."

With that, he curled himself up in a corner, pillowed his head on his arm, and resolutely closed his eyes.

The real fact of the matter was that he was angry, too. Not exactly with the Frenchman, and it didn't have anything to do with a mere sock in the jaw. No, he had earned that one fair and square, as far as he was concerned. Nobody ever appreciated being interfered with, and 'I was only trying to help' was perhaps the weakest excuse in the book. Frankly, his own hypocrisy was a sour taste in his mouth; he knew damned well that the only reason he was in the cooler at all was because he had failed to sufficiently antagonize a guard into killing him, and he knew that as soon as he got out, he'd probably try again. And if the jackboot had been on the other rib, he'd have been just as angry with LeBeau for trying to save him… and for taking a kick or three that had been meant for him. 'Hypocrite' was putting it mildly.

Prisoners in glass barracks shouldn't keep other people from throwing stones, or something equally convoluted and nonsensical.

What really irritated him was the simple fact that he had known better. What had he been thinking? He was no kind of hero, no knight in shining armor dashing in with his sword drawn, and the scrappy little Frenchman was no damsel in distress. And even if the other man _wanted_ his help, his protection, which he quite obviously did not, what did Newkirk have to offer? He couldn't save himself, let alone anyone else. And even if he tried, there were only two possible outcomes; either he'd fail miserably, landing the other man in worse trouble than he'd been in originally, or LeBeau would make the mistake of depending on him, and _then_ he'd fail miserably and get them both killed.

Better to try to go back to the way things had been. No more bilingual yelling, no more little chats. They'd probably shove him back in his own cell in the morning, maybe tack on another few days for 'escaping,' and he and LeBeau would never need to bother each other again. Much safer all around. He curled himself in a bit tighter, suppressing a pang, and told himself that he was better off alone. Bad enough that he'd had to abandon Mavis back home, alone, with nobody to help her over the rough patches. He didn't need another person to betray, and they sure as hell didn't need him.

Both of them slept, eventually. Somewhat.

Morning had broken… like a carton of eggs beneath a Sherman tank… and the next shift of guards had arrived. Today it was Jager, which was comparatively good news; he didn't hit too hard, he didn't kick once you were down, and he didn't get a sadistic pleasure out of 'accidentally' spilling your dinner on the ground. Licking watery potato soup off a filthy floor wasn't nearly as pleasant a way of dining as it sounded. Especially after the first two or three times it had happened; after that, one could say that the thrill had definitely worn off.

They could both hear his boots clicking on the floor as he slid open the observation windows, one by one, until he came to Newkirk's.

"Raus, Newkirk, raus! Achtun—Gott im Himmel! The Englander has—"

"Next cell over, Jager," Newkirk called. "It's all right. I'm in 'ere."

"Englander? Why are you here?"

"Well, that's really the universal question, now isn't it?" Newkirk grinned lazily at the ceiling.

"You should not be here!"

"Couldn't agree more. Point me towards London and I'll be out of your 'air before you can say auf Wiedersehen."

Jager opened the door, huffing in righteous fury. He glared at Newkirk. "How did you come to be here?"

"Well, you see, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—"

" **What is going on here? Jager, what's the problem?** "

" **No problem.** **That halfwit Richter put the prisoners together, that's all. He must have let Newkirk out, God only knows why. He's in the wrong cell.** "

" **Is that so?** " Bauer was the other guard on shift, it seemed. That wasn't good news at all. He switched to English. "LeBeau. Food!" He handed him a mess tin half full of something that probably wasn't poisonous and a chunk of sawdusty bread. His expression not indicative of unmixed delight, LeBeau took it.

Bauer nodded. "Jager! Put the Englander's food in _his_ cell."

Jager nodded, and gestured sharply at Newkirk, who started forward, but Bauer stopped him. "Nein. Continue your visit." Pushing a startled Jager out of the doorway, Bauer slammed the cell door shut on the two of them. And the single plate of alleged food.

Newkirk and LeBeau looked at each other, not quite sure what to do next. LeBeau scowled. " _Those pigs._ Come. We will share this."

"No, that's yours," Newkirk said automatically. "Saya voo. Anyway, judging from the smell, I'm better off skipping breakfast."

"Do not be foolish. _Do you think_ I would sit here and eat while you go hungry? _What sort of_ _host_ would do so?" He smiled tentatively; this was not about a mouthful or two of stew. "Eat with me, _my friend._ "

Newkirk hated the idea of taking food out of the other man's mouth. He hated the idea of taking charity, and—most importantly—he told himself that he hated the idea of making friends. But he'd never been much for listening, it seemed. He smiled a bit; this time it reached his eyes. "Mercy, Louie. But just, um… just un petty."

"Your accent is getting worse, not better," LeBeau commented, tearing the bread in half and handing a portion to Newkirk.

"Nothing new in that, mate. Me accent's no great shakes in English, either," Newkirk said lightly, tearing 'his' piece in half and putting one part back on the plate.

LeBeau sighed inwardly. Stubborn English mule. They ate in silence for a moment or two, then he tried again. "I am sorry about last night. Are you hurt?"

"Me? Cor, mate, I got worse than that every time dear old dad staggered in from the pub. I'm sorry I'm doing you out of your breakfast… and I promise, I won't try to get in your way after we've finished our thirty days, all right? You're right; you don't need a nanny, and I didn't mean to insult you."

"I am not insulted. I… I thank you for the kindness. But you should not do such things for me. Do not do so again. Not for me."

Newkirk looked away. So LeBeau really _didn't_ want a friend. Well, that was as it should be, he told himself. "Right, LeBeau. I'm sorry."

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Ersatz French translations:

None, none. _Je_ swee dessulay—Non, non. _Je_ suis desolee—No, no _. I'm_ sorry.

Bone swore—Bon soir—Good night

Saya voo—C'est a vous—it's yours

Mercy. Just un petty—Merci. Juste un petit—Thanks. Just a little.

The word 'chuffed' means 'pleased.' A 'china' is a friend. (From the words 'china plate', which rhymes with 'mate.') Yes, he's being obscure, and yes, it's somewhat deliberate.

The phrase 'Katie bar the door' means something in between 'watch out' and 'run for your life.' It seems to be mostly American slang, but at least one etymological explanation for the phrase stems from an incident in British history, so I put it in his vocabulary... partially because I love the phrase, and partially because it makes no literal sense whatsoever in any language, and would thoroughly confuse someone like LeBeau who is not yet exactly fluent.


	3. Chapter 3

They were back in their respective cells, and therefore back to shouting through the walls, (as unobtrusively as possible, of course,) by the next afternoon. There had been an abortive attempt at tapping out their messages in Morse code, using the heel of a boot on the metal cell doors, but it turned out that Newkirk's French was not improved by his creative spelling thereof, LeBeau's Morse was fairly hazy to begin with, and the echoes had given the guards headaches, which they had obligingly shared with all and sundry. Not worth the candle, as Newkirk had put it. And then he had had to explain to LeBeau what candles had to do with anything.

They kept up their language lessons as best they could, but somehow the zest had gone out of it, and the arguing dwindled away. The cordiality it left behind was flat, and somehow unsatisfying.

Time, nonetheless, passed.

They were released on a sulky day that couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to rain or snow, and compromised by doing both. LeBeau shivered, and wrapped his scarf a bit tighter around his throat. "This weather is terrible," he said. "And so cold!"

" _Yes. It usually is. Germany is a very beautiful country, is it not so?_ " Newkirk said, with a sarcastic eye roll and careful attention to his pronunciation.

LeBeau beamed. "Better! Much better! That almost sounded like French!"

"Thanks a lot," Newkirk replied. "Come on. If you don't like me version of the language, there are some blokes you ought to meet." He indicated direction with a jerk of his head, and they set off across the compound.

LeBeau glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. In daylight, other man seemed even more wraithlike than he'd seemed in the dim electric lights. Except, of course, for the hectic flush across his cheekbones that didn't herald anything good, especially when taken in conjunction with the cough he insisted was nothing more than the predictable result of thirty straight days of continually abusing his vocal cords. _He is getting sick_ , he thought, and told himself that he wasn't worried.

"All right then, 'ere we are," Newkirk announced, stopping at a small knot of men wearing Free French insignia on their sleeves. "Gents, this is me mate LeBeau. One of your lot. 'E's been teaching me French to pass the time."

One of the men smiled, offered a hand. " _I'm Corporal Guillaume Dubois._ _Welcome to Hell."_

" _Corporal Louis LeBeau. At least we are in good company._ "

"You call this good company?" Dubois switched back to English, shot Newkirk a playful look. "You have both been too long in the cooler. But you say you are teaching him a civilized language? Perhaps there is hope."

"Well, I have tried. Not an easy thing to do!"

"Interesting idea _—_ let us hear?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Fair warning, lads. According to LeBeau, I sound like a drunken cow. But 'ere goes, then— _Bonjour._ _Would you like to screw me?"_

There was a heartbeat of dead silence. Then, and completely understandably, the other men exploded into howls of laughter.

Newkirk blinked. Bad accent or no, it shouldn't have been that funny… Then, with a glance at LeBeau so dry that it should have desiccated him on the spot, he said, "Somebody who shall remain nameless told me that meant 'Pleasure to meet you,' and, going out on a limb 'ere, I'm going to assume that it doesn't. Tell me this. If I'd actually used that on a bird, would I just 'ave gotten me face slapped, or would 'er brothers 'ave been waiting for me in the alley behind the pub with their knives drawn?"

"Both, probably," Dubois said, wiping the tears from his eyes as he got himself back under control. "But take heart. If the girl does not slap you, you are in for a very good night."

Another flier—a sergeant, from the stripes—chimed in. "And if her brothers do not kill you, you could be in for an even better night!"

His eyes widened. "That tears it; don't tell me what I said! I don't want to know! Cor, LeBeau—did anything you taught me mean what you said it did?"

" _I'm sorry,_ Newkirk; I couldn't resist _._ But everything else is as I said," LeBeau promised. Then, with a sly grin, added, "Mostly."

"I'll get you for that," Newkirk said, shaking his head. "Just you wait. In fact—" his throat caught, and he went into a spate of coughing that bent him nearly double. " _Beg pardon_ , and I 'ope to God that actually means what you said it does," he said, when he could speak again. "Thanks ever so for the language lessons, mate. See you around." With a friendly nod, he turned to go, stuffing his hands into his pockets and heading back across the snowy ground. LeBeau blinked; he hadn't quite expected to be simply abandoned to strangers.

The Frenchmen watched him go. " _Well, I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. It's good to meet you, Corporal,"_ said the sergeant.

" _Pleasure to meet you all,_ " LeBeau answered, and smiled. The Englishman had been a good sparring partner, and he could admit, if only in the privacy of his own head, that having somebody to talk to for those first dark days had been a lifeline and a godsend, but hearing his own language was like a breath of home.

Dubois draped an arm over his shoulder. " _There are not that many of us here as compared to the English, so we try to stick together. What barracks are you in?"_

 _"Two, I think the Boche colonel said_ ," said LeBeau, trying to dredge up a month-old memory.

" _Damn. No other Frenchmen are assigned there. Ah, well, perhaps we can get you transferred in a month or so_."

LeBeau grimaced. " _In a month or so I hope to have escaped."_

 _"Maybe,"_ said Dubois noncommittally. " _LeBeau, you don't know me, and this is none of my business, but may I offer you a word of advice?"_

 _"Of course,_ " LeBeau said, expecting to be told horror stories about failed escapes. He would listen politely, and take it all under consideration, and then escape as soon as was humanly possible. Dubois did not have to accompany him if he didn't want to.

" _Stay away from him as much as you can. Newkirk. He's trouble._ "

" _What?_ " LeBeau blinked. That was taking the conversation in directions he hadn't even considered. " _It was only a joke; surely you don't think he'd_ —"

" _No, no._ _Not that. Just… he's trouble. He annoys the guards, he steals, he fights. He's in the cooler so often I don't know why they even bother assigning him to a barracks. The RAF gave him two stripes, but he's gotten a hell of a lot more of them from the Nazis, and he still never seems to learn. You're new, the last thing you need is the Boche associating you with him."_

 _"I see,"_ LeBeau said slowly. " _Thank you for the warning. Is there… is there anyone else you would suggest I avoid?"_

 _"Not really. Most here are good men. A few bullies, but I'll point them out as we see them,"_ Dubois said. " _You'll be fine. Come. I'll show you around the rest of the camp."_

They finished their tour, late that afternoon, at Barracks Two. The cooler had been a miserable, dank pit. The barracks, somehow, managed to be almost worse. There were gaps in the door large enough to let in the sunlight, (assuming the sun ever shone in Germany, which LeBeau was not about to take on faith,) the wind whistled through the holes in the roof, and the ramshackle bunks looked ready to collapse. The building was icy cold, the iron stove unlit, and it smelled of sweaty, overcrowded misery.

"LeBeau?" Newkirk looked up as they entered. "Long time, no see, mate. Didn't know you were setting up 'ousekeeping in this particular toilet."

"It would seem so," LeBeau said, looking around, trying to mask his distaste.

He grinned. "Oh, don't look so sour. You 'aven't seen all its good points yet."

"What good points?"

"When I find some, I'll tell you." Newkirk got up, stretched lazily. "Hmm. Say, Forrest. A word in your shell-like ear?" With no further ado, he crossed the room, slung an arm over the shoulder of another RAF airman, and began a low-voiced conversation.

LeBeau frowned. He did not especially appreciate being ignored, and this was now the second time Newkirk had abandoned him mid-conversation. _Dubois was right. He is a good man to stay away from. Rude, stubborn fool._ Left to himself, he wandered around the barracks, examining it a bit more closely. The men looked like statues or ghosts, slouched on every article of furniture in the room, most of them draped in their blankets, all busily engaged in doing nothing.

Forrest came back. "LeBeau, was it? You'll be bunking in with me, old chap. Hope you don't kick like my last one did."

"You want me to share your bed?"

"Your virtue is perfectly safe," Forrest said, rolling his eyes. "Including you, we've got thirty-five sardines in this little tin, and eight bunk beds. Sixteen mattresses, two men apiece, and three on the floor waiting for a spot to open up. We do the best we can, Corporal."

"Of course. I did not mean…"

Forrest looked away for a moment, then returned his attention to LeBeau. "Quite all right. We're over here. Bottom bunk; it's a bit warmer."

"Right, the icicles 'anging off your nose will be at least an inch shorter than they would be up top," Newkirk said helpfully.

"Thank you very much, Corporal," Forrest said dryly. "Don't know what we'd do without you."

"Apparently the Krauts don't either. Come on, lads, it's nearly chow time. LeBeau, you're in for a rare treat."

OoOoO

"A rare treat?" LeBeau asked, as something appalling was ladled into his mess tin. "This you call a rare treat?"

"Must be rare. Sure as 'ell isn't well done!" Newkirk, directly behind him in line, and trying not to smell his own entrée, accepted his piece of bread and grimaced. "Cor, there's enough mold on this thing to put Alexander Fleming out of business."

" _Revolting_ ," LeBeau grumbled. " _At home_ , we would not even give _this muck_ to the dogs. I thought once I was out of the cooler the food would be _less inedible_."

"The Jerries wouldn't serve this to their dogs, either," Forrest said bitterly. "They get far better food than this."

"Of course they do. The dogs are valuable," muttered another prisoner.

Spotting a few empty spaces at one of the long tables, they walked over. Forrest sat down at the table and, his lips tight with distaste, took his first bite. Newkirk sat beside him and, motioning LeBeau to sit on his other side, poked a tentative spoon into the gelatinous… stuff.

Forrest, with a pointed look at Newkirk, broke off a bit of bread and dipped it into the stew. Newkirk nodded, picked up his own untouched piece and handed it over, then went back to picking at his own meal. LeBeau, who had not missed the byplay, looked at him questioningly.

"Debt of 'onor," Newkirk said, shrugging it off. "Payment for services rendered. You know 'ow it is."

"And getting off cheaply, at that," Forrest smiled.

"Don't blame me if you don't strike the world's 'ardest bargain." His expression clouded over for a moment, and he swallowed, looking green. "Do forgive me manners. I… oh, 'ell, Forrest, an advance on next time, all right? I've got to—" Hurriedly, he shoved the still mostly full bowl over to the other man, scrambled to his feet, and all but ran for the door.

LeBeau stared after him. "He is ill, I think."

Forrest sighed. "He'll be all right. Probably flu again. It'll be your turn soon enough, never fear." He poured half of Newkirk's abandoned meal into LeBeau's dish, emptied the rest into his own. Off LeBeau's expression, he lifted an eyebrow. "No sense in wasting it."

LeBeau ate, thinking hard. "What was he paying you for?"

Forrest didn't look at him. "His business, not mine to tell. Let's say I did him a small favor and leave it at that."

That sounded suspicious, but LeBeau didn't press, and it was obvious that Forrest didn't want to pursue the topic. They finished eating in silence.

Roll call that evening ran long, primarily because the Kommandant, who was snugly buttoned into a warm winter coat and well shielded by a black umbrella, took the opportunity to deliver what was apparently a well-polished and familiar speech on the subject of the inevitable triumph of the Thousand Year Reich. He waxed eloquent on the mental picture of the subjugation of first Europe, then the world, and the unquestionable superiority of Germans, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, and LeBeau stopped listening about five minutes in. It was still snowing, he was so cold that he could no longer feel his toes, and he was still hungry, despite the additional half-ration. The glassy-eyed stares on the faces of the other prisoners suggested that he was not alone in his disinterest. Newkirk, standing some four or five places to his right, looked too numb even to notice that the man was still talking, and indeed, needed to be nudged back into awareness of his surroundings when they were finally dismissed.

And they were dismissed, eventually, and staggered into the barracks. Nobody bothered undressing, and only a few removed their boots before crawling into bed and huddling into the blankets. LeBeau took off his beret, then, tentative, lay down on the edge of the bunk Forrest had pointed out to him.

"That's the one nice thing about the cooler, right? A bed all to yourself and no snoring neighbors." Newkirk gave him a weary smile as he slid his cap under the shoulder strap of his sodden jacket for safekeeping, and curled up on the floor in a puppy pile with the other bunkless unfortunates. "Good night, mate."

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Alexander Fleming was the man who discovered penicillin after a Petrie dish became moldy. It was not available for civilian use until after WWII. I could not say with any certainty whether the mold on the mess hall bread might have had medicinal qualities, or if it would have had any effect on the nasty stomach bug our poor friend is incubating.

And as for LeBeau's creative translation, don't think too badly of him. That really _was_ the only phrase he booby-trapped.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: As before, and dialogue rendered in _italics_ are to be understood as being in fluent French. In a couple of places, I used the actual French words, because having them translated in the next breath was part of the dialogue. But in general, I've spared you my attempts at a language I respect too much to sully.

OoOoOoOoO

The morning wasn't much of an improvement on the night before. Roll call featured another unbearably longwinded philippic from the Kommandant, who was obviously in love with the sound of his own voice. Not a fascination shared by anyone else, but at least someone was enjoying the experience. Breakfast was brownish water masquerading as coffee and more coarse bread; this time it was both moldy _and_ stale, apparently by way of variety.

And that was the pattern of life for the next couple of weeks. LeBeau, not quite sure where he fit—where he _wanted_ to fit— _if_ he wanted to fit—caromed back and forth between the men in Barracks Two and the other French prisoners. He had discussed the possibility of transfer with Dubois, once or twice, but had not put in the necessary request.

" _I'd be happy to have you in with us in Seven,_ " Dubois had offered. " _Of course, I'm afraid you'd be part of the floorboard brigade until someone transferred out, unless you have something you could trade for a spot in a bunk, but at least you'd be among your own."_

" _I have the clothes on my back,"_ he'd said with a shrug. " _And I'll say it before you can; those are probably too small for anyone else, so no—I've nothing to trade. Anyhow, I have a bed in Two."_

" _You do?"_ Dubois looked surprised. " _So soon?"_

" _Since the first night I got out of the cooler. My bunkmate may be English, but at least he doesn't steal the covers."_

" _Stay where you are, then, by all means,"_ Dubois said. " _You're lucky."_

LeBeau bit his lip. He had a feeling that luck had not had much to do with it, and he did not like it at all.

The next day was cold. Not snowing, which was something, but cold enough to be depressing nonetheless. The senior POW officer, a RAF captain of mediocre intelligence and no spine whatsoever, had 'volunteered' half the camp for work parties, and the greenish dishwater (that might, at one point in its existence have had a nodding acquaintance with a cabbage leaf, but, if so, they had long since parted ways, and on no amicable terms, either,) was not much of a reward for their labor.

Twelve hours of grubbing in the dirt could do wonders for the appetite, though. Even Newkirk, who was still roughly the same color as the soup, had devoured his portion with an alacrity that really should have been reserved for something worthier. Over his shoulder, LeBeau looked longingly at the mess hall as they left. "A sin, what they do to food. I tell you, if I could get some of the… the tools, the makings? A pot, a knife… some supplies. I could make such better meals!"

"I have a razor," Forrest commented. "And what is a pot but a metal bucket? Perhaps one of the fire pails would do? We've already got the stove in the barracks… there's enough wood to light it for a few hours."

Newkirk cocked his head thoughtfully. "You know, the guards' mess is bound to 'ave some decent stuff stashed away. Perhaps if you were to make up a bit of a shopping list, I could take a stroll down to market."

" _Impossible!"_ LeBeau scoffed. "Is it so easy? Is it not… shut tight?"

"I've a bit of a talent for getting into places I oughtn't to be," Newkirk said airily. "Never you fear on that score. Tell me what you want; I'll see if I can't find it for you. Who would you rather see having a decent meal for a change—the bloody Krauts or us?"

LeBeau shook his head. "Stealing from the _Boche_? This is very dangerous."

"What can they do to me? Put me in prison?" Newkirk rolled his eyes expressively. "Look, it's me own neck I'm risking, and it's a risk I'm willing to take if it means a good dinner for the lot of us."

LeBeau frowned. He had no high opinion of Newkirk's common sense, and, if he was going to be entirely honest with himself, he wanted what the other man was offering too desperately to be at all certain that he should accept it. He knew how badly his hands itched to create, how badly he wanted to cook, to bring something beautiful into existence; even here in Hell, perhaps _especially_ here in Hell, he wanted there to be something that was not ugly and shameful. He wanted to cook food that made life feel like something other than a penance for some unknown sin, and he wanted to give that food to the beaten-down men with whom he found himself, (and he steadfastly refused to name any names, because so long as it was a simple generalized altruism rather than any real interpersonal connection he could not be hurt by it,) and, admittedly, he wanted the chance to eat something that did not make him wish that he had not survived being shot down. He was not going to apologize for being human.

Yes, he wanted whatever treasures might be purloined from their captors. He wanted the Englishman to obtain them for him, and to hell with the possible consequences. He wanted it too much to be at all reasonable about calculating the odds of discovery and punishment. That lack of objectivity, he knew, was reason enough in and of itself to think twice and thrice before agreeing. "Perhaps," he said, guardedly. "This is very dangerous. And the more so because whatever I make, whatever you bring, we cannot hope to feed all. And those we do not feed would be angry."

"He's got a point," Forrest admitted. "Even if we stick to just our boys in Barracks Two, it's going to be quite a crowd around the old dinner table."

"We can try something or we can do nothing," Newkirk said bluntly. "If we try, yes, we're taking a big risk, and, yes, we'll probably get caught sooner or later. We do nothing, men will die, and it'll be sooner rather than later. Callahan looks like a toast rack in trousers."

 _So do you_ , LeBeau thought, once he'd deciphered that little mental image. And perhaps that was what decided him. "Vegetables. _Pommes de terre_ , surely they will have these, _un chou_ , some _carottes, oignons;_ always these are good. Meat would be good, but not likely. Better possibility there will be bones for stock. Flour to give some… thickness, some shape. Salt. Garlic. Other herbs these _couchons_ will not have, I think, but any they do."

"Flour, salt, bones, garlic, 'erbs if they've got them. Meat if we're lucky. Veg. What was that about earth?"

" _Pommes de terre._ Potatoes," Forrest translated. "Spent a few holidays in France when I was at uni; can't speak it to save my life, but I can read a menu with the best of them. Potatoes, cabbage, onions, carrots, and I suppose anything else that isn't nailed down."

"I'll 'ave the footman carry your shopping up to the scullery," Newkirk promised.

"Newkirk…" LeBeau hesitated as they reached the door to their barracks, and the other men went in. He didn't know what, exactly, he wanted to say, and even if he had known, he didn't have the necessary English words. "This is not safe," he said finally.

He just shrugged. "I won't mention your name if I'm nicked."

"That is not what I am saying!" Now he was insulted. "I am not thinking of myself!"

"I know you're not. But you're not thinking of Callahan, either. And someone's got to. Think of Forrest, or MacDonald, or any of the lads. Look, mate, I know I'm asking you to take a big risk for blokes you don't know from Adam, but I _am_ asking you to do it. Cooking in the barracks is a good way to get tossed in the cooler, but what else can we do?"

"And being caught stealing is a good way to be shot."

"Then I suppose I'd best not be caught, wouldn't you say?" He flashed a quick smile—a real smile, not one of the cocky grins he wore like a mask. LeBeau was a bit disconcerted to realize that he could already tell the difference. "Never you fear, Louie. I was pinching food for the table before me adult teeth came in. This'll be just like old times."

OoOoOoOoO

When he came skulking back to the barracks late that night, he was carrying his cap in one hand and holding his jacket closed with the other. "Now then," he said to Forrest, and handed over the cap, which was full of flour. "I just 'ope I can get all that ruddy flour out of there, or I'm going to look like me own granddad tomorrow."

"This place will turn us all gray before our time," Forrest said briskly. "You'll look quite distinguished, I'm sure."

"Never mind the compliments," he said. "LeBeau! Come take a look." He had discarded his usual sweater in favor of a collared shirt borrowed from another prisoner; it was about three sizes too large for him, and, when tucked snugly into his belt, had made a convenient carrier bag. Undoing the first few buttons, he began extracting groceries.

"Newkirk, you look like Father Christmas," observed one of the other prisoners. LeBeau hadn't caught his name yet.

"Well, I feel like Josephine bloody Baker," he shot back, extracting a large and fragrant onion from the depths of his shirt.

Richmond, a sergeant, and the shirt's actual owner, groaned. "Strewth, there's a mental image I didn't need. And what the hell is that? Onions? Cheers, Newkirk; I'm going to stink to high heaven."

"Nothing new there, mate. Right, I think that's the lot."

LeBeau shook his head in utter disbelief. Six carrots, nine potatoes, the aforementioned onion, a couple of beef bones. A twist of paper with some salt. A cup or two of flour, possibly slightly adulterated with dandruff. For thirty-five men.

It was _miraculous_.

Newkirk shrugged uncomfortably. "It's not much, I know. The pantry was locked up tighter than the Tower of London, and before I 'ad a chance to so much as peek inside, in comes that tosser Schmitt looking for a bleeding midnight snack. I ducked under the sink till 'e'd gone away, then just snatched whatever was lying about loose on the counters and scarpered."

" _Dear God, I knew this was a bad idea. It is far too dangerous,_ " LeBeau said.

"Don't get yourself into a lather. I'm fine," he said dismissively. "Oh, 'alf a tick." He drew a knife from his waistband, handed it over. "Tomorrow I'll try for a pot."

"Tomorrow?"

"Well, things might be different on the continent, but back in England, we like to eat every day," Newkirk pointed out. "Besides, that pantry was calling me name; I'm curious to see what might be in there."

"But they will see these things are gone, and guard more carefully. You will be caught!"

"Newkirk, he's right," Forrest said. "It's too great a risk."

"Fine. We can worry about tomorrow when it gets here," Newkirk said, with an obedient amiability that immediately made the hairs on the back of LeBeau's neck stand up. "For now, what say we eat the evidence? I did me part, LeBeau; 'ow about you do yours?"

LeBeau glared at him. He didn't believe for one minute that Newkirk was going to simply agree that easily. He didn't believe that Newkirk would agree at all. He wasn't entirely certain that Newkirk would agree that water was wet if he'd decided that it wasn't.

But he had achieved the impossible; the food was there. The men were hungry. And the evidence did need to be disposed of. "We must light the stove," he directed, his mind racing. The bones should be roasted; a tin plate would have to do for a baking dish. Once they had browned a bit, he thought, he would indeed use the fire bucket for a pot, and would boil the bones to make broth.

The scowl fading from his face as he became engrossed in his task, he turned his attention to the small pile of vegetables and grasped the knife. It felt so familiar in his hand. So right. Slowly, then faster and faster as he forgot his surroundings, forgot his fears and his troubles, as years of practice flowed through his fingers, he prepared the _mirepoix_ as though he were in his own kitchen in Paris, as if he had never left his own kitchen in Paris. As if there were not a war, as if he was not stranded in the middle of a nightmare. As if he was not fully aware that he was making, at most, a futile gesture; that a cup or so of soup apiece would do very little for the three dozen men at starvation's very doorstep watching him work.

Newkirk smiled to himself as LeBeau worked, the chef seeming entirely at peace with himself for the first time since he'd met the man, but he was too tired to watch for very long. He felt his eyes sliding shut while LeBeau was still cutting the potatoes into neat cubes, and was asleep long before he had turned his attention to the onion.

OoOoOoO

Author's note: _Mirepoix_ , according to the all-knowing internet, is a mixture of chopped carrots, celery, and onions that is a popular component of bone broths like the one LeBeau is preparing. The Germans did not have celery, and he's no doubt displeased… but what can one expect from a shopping trip that involves hiding under a sink until the guard goes away? Perfection? I didn't think so.

Josephine Baker was an entertainer, and a phenomenally successful one. She was African-American, but spent most of her life in France, and in fact worked for the French Resistance during WWII. There's no way Newkirk could have known about that, at least not at this point in his career, and it is therefore completely irrelevant to this story, but interesting nonetheless. Newkirk's comment was in reference to one of her most famous performances, in which she wore nothing but a skirt made of bananas.

And Richmond was absolutely right—strewth, that's a mental image none of us needed.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a revelation, of sorts; weeks or months of prison food, preceded by months or years of army rations… some of the men had almost forgotten that eating could be an enjoyable experience. It was well after four in the morning—nearly time for roll call, God help them all—when thirty-five men, by the feeble glow of a motley assortment of cigarette lighters, sat around the barracks, each sipping from a cup of thin broth with a pleasure that bordered on reverence.

LeBeau looked around, over the rim of his own mug. The barracks was still a scene from a horror story. The men still looked like ghosts, and the flickering lights, which cast ominous shadows on the walls and on the hollow-eyed faces, did them no favors. But they were smiling, and the atmosphere was suddenly warmed by more than the stove.

Newkirk, who had been dozing with his back against the door, was shaken awake by Forrest. He took the proffered cup, tasted it, then smiled, unfolded himself, and crossed the floor to where LeBeau was sitting on the edge of his bunk. He sat down on a footlocker, so their heads were on the same level. "You did a good job, mate," he said quietly. "Couldn't 'ave asked for better, considering what you 'ad to work with."

"Bah. I would hardly call it a good job," LeBeau said dismissively, not about to show how good the compliment felt. "Even _under these dreadful circumstances_ , it was not my best work."

"It's certainly good enough for me," Newkirk said. "I'd go so far as to say that, when the 'istory of ersatz scrap bucket soup comes to be written, you'll 'ave a chapter all your own."

LeBeau rolled his eyes. So much for compliments. "Very funny. What would an Englishman know about good food, anyhow?"

"I'd say 'e knows it when 'e sees it. And when it's been months since 'e saw it, I'd say 'e ought to be grateful to the bloke as made it." He looked at his empty mug as though seriously considering licking it clean. "I'm not joking, LeBeau. It's not everyone could stretch 'alf a dozen carrots as far as that and still 'ave it end up tasting like something."

"It… it is not going to be enough," LeBeau admitted in a half-whisper. "They… _we_ need more than this."

"I know. Believe you me, mate, I know." Newkirk looked grim. "We can't stop now. It's dangerous, but are you willing to give this another go?"

LeBeau studied the other man for a moment, then shook his head. "I hope, _mon ami_ , that you are not thinking that you are fooling me," he said seriously.

"Fooling you? About what? This isn't a ruddy game, mate. The lads are starving!"

"Not that. You think you are going to go back and steal more, and bring it to me to cook, and tell me that I, _I,_ am the one performing the dangerous task. That it is I doing the favor, not receiving it. _No more lies between us, do you understand?_ I am not fooled by you."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Would I try to pull the wool over a mate's eyes?"

"Pull the wool over…? _Ah, your language makes no sense. What is that even supposed to mean? No, never mind; I don't care._ Yes, I think you would. To prevent this wool, however, I shall come with you the next time. I will help you choose what we will take."

"Are you off your bleeding trolley? This isn't a matter of 'aggling with the greengrocer over a bunch of parsnips; this is sneaking past a bunch of trigger-'appy Krauts with a bushel of potatoes stuffed under your jumper! We could both get shot!"

"Then I suppose we had best not get caught, wouldn't you say?"

With his own words thrown back at him, Newkirk couldn't do much but glare at him. "Never mind that! We've got to keep at this, but you do your 'alf, and I'll do mine. Exactly what do you know about sneaking about, anyhow? They teach cat burglary at the Cordon Bleu?"

LeBeau smiled, smug. "Pierre, I am French! There are any number of husbands who would be surprised to know how good at sneaking I am. You are right. We cannot stop now… but we will take the risks together or not at all. We are like _the Musketeers,yes? Un pour tous, tous pour un_."

"I saw that movie. And I can tell you right now, I am not wearing one of those stupid 'ats with the feathers in; I don't care what you say."

"I would not ask it of you, d'Artagnan."

OoOoOoO

Two nights later, against the better judgment of pretty much everyone, a pair of silhouettes slipped through the shadows to the guards' mess. Newkirk, his tongue between his teeth, fussed with the locked door for a moment, then mockingly gestured LeBeau in with the grandeur of a Savoy doorman. Assuming sarcasm was permitted to Savoy employees. Which LeBeau somehow doubted it was, but with an eloquent eyeroll and a very Parisian flip of a hand, he went in anyhow.

Newkirk silently closed the door behind them, and went straight to the pantry. Making even shorter work of that lock, he looked questioningly at LeBeau.

LeBeau crossed the floor, looked inside. It was like looking into a pirate cave, or the fairy gold at the end of a rainbow. The treasures of Solomon could not hope to compare. For a moment, he could scarcely believe that he was truly seeing what he thought he was; then, coming back to reality, he could scarcely believe that he, Louis LeBeau, chef and connoisseur, was staring at cans of Spam and boxes of powdered milk as though they were anything other than crimes against cuisine. But then, this was not reality, was it? This was a stalag, a plywood and barbed wire nightmare come to life, and these dreadful tin cans could mean the difference between life and death.

Working quickly, he selected items, handed them out to Newkirk. He took nothing that was not present in abundance—with any luck the Germans would not notice the loss, at least not for a while—and nothing that would not keep. The barracks was cold enough that an icebox was not, in all likelihood, going to be needed, but better safe than sorry.

They got away clean, and made it back with their booty, including a somewhat battered stewpot that Newkirk had liberated from the very back of a cupboard, where it had obviously been languishing, unused and unwanted, for some time. And, as before, LeBeau set immediately to work, producing a thick stew with—wonder of wonders—meat. Real meat. A thing many of them had not seen for months. Men sat together, mopping up the last vestiges of gravy with bread that was, if not exactly fresh, at least not a case study in petrification or fungi, and there was hope. Another thing that, for most of them, had been little more than a memory for longer than anyone cared to admit.

OoOoOoO

Dubois came to see him, some two weeks later. _"LeBeau… I need to speak with you. Privately."_

 _"Of course,_ " he replied. " _What can I do for you?"_

" _It's what I can do for you_ ," Dubois said. " _A few of us have been digging a tunnel. I think we'll be ready to get out of here in a couple of days. If you've got the nerve… you could come with us."_

LeBeau's eyes lit up. _"If I have the nerve…! Let me at it! I'll finish digging that tunnel with my fingernails if I have to!"_

 _"Take it easy,_ " Dubois laughed. " _We're almost ready. Probably by the end of the week; we'll be reporting to de Gaulle before you know it. The tunnel entrance is in Seven, so you'll have to sneak over after lights out. All right?"_

Sneaking over… the smile left LeBeau's face. " _I… well, may I ask you a favor?"_

" _What is it?"_

 _"Can we include one more man in the escape?"_

 _"Who did you have in mind? Counting you, we're already up to eight. There's a limit to how many people we can hope to smuggle out of the country at a time."_

 _"I thought of Corporal Newkirk,_ " LeBeau said, a bit sheepishly. This wasn't going to end well. The warning Dubois had given him was echoing in his ears, but he had to ask.

" ** _Him_** _? LeBeau, are you mad?"_

" _He is a good man,"_ LeBeau said. " _A good comrade. He could be a help."_

Dubois shook his head. " _We can't risk it. The Boche watch him like a hawk—he's made too many attempts already, made himself too much of a scapegoat. Sorry, Corporal."_

LeBeau nodded slowly. He could tell himself that, simply by virtue of asking the favor, he had made as much of an effort as could reasonably be expected, and escape with the other French prisoners. He could. He'd be lying, and he knew it, but he could.

He bit his lip. Newkirk, he felt sure, would be the first to tell him to go. Would mock him for even entertaining the notion of staying behind, with some bizarre English phrase whose meaning didn't have much to do with the actual definition of any of the words he used. Just as, if their positions were reversed, he would tell the other man to go, to leave LeBeau behind to shift for himself.

Damn it, why did that sound so unconvincing, even in the privacy of his own head?

" _Let me think about it for a day or so, please?"_

" _Of course, LeBeau_ ," Dubois said, a bit coldly. " _There's time. We are still working on the tunnel. I'll let you know when we are planning to leave."_

 _"Thank you, my friend. I am grateful."_

OoOoOoO

LeBeau told himself that he was going. That he deserved his freedom as much as anyone else in camp. He and Newkirk had planned another raid on the kitchen that night; he would go through with it, cook one last meal for the men in the barracks, and that would be his parting gift to them. He could report to de Gaulle with a clean conscience. Well, a slightly checkered conscience.

All right, all right; with a load of guilt and a stain on his soul he'd probably carry to the grave.

He couldn't do it.

Newkirk, who noticed LeBeau's grim mood but chalked it up to the normal wear and tear of prison life, didn't comment on it. They ghosted themselves across the compound and into the mess hall, expertly, easily, without a word being spoken. And it was purest chance that Corporal Otto saw a shadow in the window where none should have been and came into the mess hall to investigate.

LeBeau, by prearrangement, broke left as they sprinted out the door. He skirted the Kommandantur, ducked around the water tower, and darted into Barracks Two via the window. He dove into the bunk with Forrest, hat, coat, boots and all, and lay still, feigning sleep and trying not to shake. Forrest, immediately comprehending the situation, flung the blanket over both of them and drew LeBeau close, hiding him as best he could behind his own body.

Newkirk broke right, as planned, pounding past the recreation hall and—ominously—the cooler as he made for the barracks, with Otto, if not hot on his heels, at least lukewarm. But he was an old hand at evading unpleasant personages, the sort who liked to ask rude questions about irrelevant matters like where one had been that evening, whether one had had permission to be there, why one just so happened to be carrying something that looked remarkably like a set of lockpicks, and the exact provenance of any small items one had acquired along the way. And he probably would have made it back safe if Richter had not been slipping back into camp after spending an unauthorized evening at the local biergarten, and was, therefore, eager to impress the Kommandant with his alertness and devotion to duty. After all this time, Newkirk was fairly philosophical about being hauled off for yet another stretch in solitary, but he did think that the fact that the guard positively reeked of beer added unnecessary insult to inevitable injury.

It didn't even smell like _good_ beer. He hoped Richter's hangover was one for the books. Serve the wanker right.

OoOoOoO

LeBeau was not philosophical about it at all. He was furious. _I knew it was too dangerous. I knew it. I told him so. Stubborn fool; this was suicide, and we both knew it!_

 _I knew it was too dangerous… and I urged him on anyway. I insisted on coming along; perhaps I slowed him down. My fault, all my fault…_

Being furious was easier than being afraid—what was going to happen to Newkirk? _Did_ the Germans shoot thieves?—and was almost visceral enough to drown the feelings of guilt. And fear. He could not pick locks; alone, there was no way for him to continue feeding the men. What would he do without that task; what was left to give some meaning to his captivity? How was he to keep himself sane?

Drowning in a sea of emotions, he considered it almost anticlimactic when the German guards discovered the nearly complete tunnel, and the seven men working therein, in Barracks Seven the next day.


	6. Chapter 6

LeBeau watched through the window, stone-faced, as Dubois and the other six men were loaded into a truck bound for Stalag 8. All prisoners were confined to quarters for the next two days as punishment for the attempted escape. The tunnel had already been filled in. All, all was lost. " _Au revoir, mes amis,"_ he whispered. " _Vive la France."_

Two major disruptions of camp life, and he was at the center of both of them. The Kommandant was fit to be tied. This, after all, reflected on him, on his management of the camp, and his superiors in Berlin were hardly the forgiving sort. He could expect no mercy, and therefore would be offering none; he wanted—needed— to punish someone, anyone, and it would be severe. Guilt or innocence no longer mattered to him, not that it ever really had. Intellectually, LeBeau knew that he should be afraid, should be at least nervous. He felt nothing; he was too numb even to be on tenterhooks. Yet again, he had slipped neatly through the cracks of disaster, alone and unscathed; yet again he had no real idea how, or why. And yet again, those closest to him were vanquished and vanished, leaving him with only his regrets for company. He was anything but grateful.

He was fairly sure that he'd escaped scot-free. It seemed likely he had. If any of the tunnelers had revealed that he, LeBeau, had been invited to join the escape, he reasoned, he would have been on the truck with them. Which he wasn't. And as for the other matter, if Newkirk had admitted that he, LeBeau, had been a part of the mess hall burglary, he would be… wherever Newkirk was. And he wasn't. _I won't mention your name if I'm nicked_ , the thief had said _._ Obviously, he hadn't.

LeBeau spent the next eight days telling himself that he had no actual proof that Newkirk was dead. And that worry was, therefore, either premature or already too late. He didn't find himself particularly convincing. On the ninth day, when the Kommandant finally got around to mentioning that Newkirk was in the cooler, where he would remain for the next thirty-six days, and added that he hoped it would serve as a lesson to all of them, LeBeau's relief was so overwhelming that he didn't pay much attention to the rest of the tirade, which was probably better for all concerned.

It seemed that the German took a dim view of theft. He considered it an insult to his command, to the Third Reich, to the natural order of things. Especially a theft of food. Food belonging to and reserved for the loyal German soldiers of the camp, intended for Aryan supermen, not the dregs of Europe; the crime was beyond unforgivable. And he resented the implication that the prisoners were not adequately fed, resented it so deeply, that, were it to happen again, bread rations would be reduced by half. Campwide. For the duration.

As an aside, while one of the guilty parties had already been apprehended, he felt sure that the thefts had not been the work of a single man, and any prisoner who cared to relieve his no doubt aching conscience by identifying the other members of the criminal conspiracy would find himself receiving not only the Kommandant's sincerest gratitude but a double ration of white bread— _with butter—_ for a fortnight.

Forrest's eyes narrowed a bit. LeBeau stared resolutely into the middle distance, his expression blank, but nobody seemed to feel any immediate need to unburden themselves, and they all returned to the barracks.

"This is bad," Richmond said, plucking nervously at his shirt. It had been washed, but he imagined that he could still detect the scent of onion.

"Yes, it is," Forrest agreed with a sigh. "At the risk of getting personal, Corporal, your size makes you easy to identify in a crowd. And our beloved Kommandant is offering quite a toothsome little bribe. I'd be half tempted to turn you in myself if I wasn't just as guilty."

LeBeau shrugged, keeping his face blank. "If it happens, then it happens. I can do nothing to prevent it."

"All we can do is lay low and hope for the best. They can't have gotten anything out of Newkirk, or we'd already be done for. With any luck, they'll just think he was black marketing or something."

"When it's just us, he never shuts up," Richmond agreed. "But when the chips are down, he knows how to keep his tongue behind his teeth."

LeBeau decided, firstly, that Richmond probably meant that Newkirk would not betray them, which he would have thought so self-evident that it did not require repetition, and, secondly, that he was not going to bother asking about the relevance of downed chips (a word for which he knew several definitions, none of which seemed to fit the situation, not even the one about— shudder— deep fried potato wedges,) nor of tongues and teeth. Thirdly, that English was a mad language. No wonder it produced a mad people.

"We all have to be perfect little angels for a while, all right, men? And hide your kitchen tools, LeBeau. Possession of stolen cookware would be bad enough, but if they knew we had a knife in here... the cooler would be the least of it," Forrest continued. "Just by virtue of being in the same barracks as Newkirk, we're going to be under suspicion anyway."

Richmond shook his head. "And rightfully so, I suppose. Forty-five days in an isolation cell! That poor bastard. God, I don't even like to think about it."

"He was not well _before_ this happened. I hope this will not be too much for him," LeBeau said.

"He'll manage," Forrest said shortly. It sounded unsympathetic, but the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders gave the lie to the curtness of his words. "Always does. He can handle anything Jerry throws at him."

"Should bloody well think so," said another prisoner; LeBeau didn't see which. "He's certainly got the practice. That damned Cockney can get himself locked up in every hole in Germany if he likes, for all of me, but I don't much appreciate getting caught in the crossfire."

"Stow it, Hawkins," Richmond said sharply. "I didn't see you saying 'no' when we were passing around the platters."

"You didn't see me asking that tupenny-hapenny crook to get our bread ration cut, either," Hawkins snarled. "You didn't see me asking any of you to start up this whole Robin Hood caper."

"We were only trying to help," LeBeau began.

"Oh, of course, and a brilliant job you've made of it, Frog!"

"That's enough!" Forrest barked. "Leave it alone, Hawkins. Look, we're not doing ourselves or anyone else any good by tearing each other apart. We'll just all be on our best behavior for a while; and leave the guard's mess strictly alone. The Kommandant will come up with something else to be angry about soon enough; he'll forget all about us."

"And Newkirk sits in a coffin for six weeks." LeBeau didn't even try to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"What do you care? For that matter, what does _he_ care? One cage is as good as another to a jailbird," Hawkins scoffed.

"What are you saying? _Why are you being such an ass? You ungrateful—_ "

"Did you think he learned to pick locks in Sunday School?" Hawkins said, and spat.

" _I've had just about enough of you, and I don't have to stand here and listen to your filthy schoolyard insults,_ " LeBeau snapped, his patience threadbare and his English deserting him. How dared he. How _dared_ he? Who needed enemies when this was the best they could scrape up by way of allies?

"Well, now. Aren't we quick to defend the honor of our resident felon," Hawkins cooed in a saccharine singsong. "How touching! Must be true what they say about you French. He was certainly quick enough about getting you into a bed; I knew he must have had his reasons for that. Tell me—which one of you is the girl?"

LeBeau needed a minute to parse that, to switch his brain back to English. Once he had, though, his already tenuous grasp on his temper melted like butter in a hot pan, and he started forward, fists at the ready and the world blazing red around the edges of his vision.

He didn't get far; Richmond, who had not needed to pause for a translation, caught him by both arms, and, simultaneously, Forrest grabbed Hawkins before matters could degenerate any further.

"That's _more_ than enough out of you," Forrest rasped. "Hawkins, you're out of line. LeBeau, cool off! The last thing we need is to have the guard coming in here."

"The last thing _you_ need, maybe. From where I'm standing, my bunkmates are more of a danger to me than the damned Krauts," Hawkins snapped. "Seems to me, the sooner we get the troublemakers out of here, the safer we'll all be."

The barracks went very quiet.

"Rats don't tend to have a very good time of it around here," said someone, finally. LeBeau didn't see who, and didn't recognize the voice.

"Are you _threatening_ me, Everett?"

"Do I have to? Are you genuinely daft enough to sell men's lives for two weeks of bread?" Everett sighed. "Are you willing to trade the good will of every man in camp for a couple of days in Jerry's good graces? Think about it. Might not kill you outright—could get a bit messy, that—but there's no shortage of unpleasant things that can happen to a man. That's not a threat; that's simple _logic._ What happens the next time you need a favor? Going to ask your good friend the Kommandant?"

"You're all mad," Hawkins grumbled, subsiding. "All of you."

"Then perhaps you'd best transfer to a saner barracks," Richmond said.

"…Or a saner camp," Everett said softly. "Like the lot from Seven. We could probably help you arrange that. If you wanted."

Outnumbered, Hawkins shook off Forrest's arm with a curse. "To hell with you," he said defiantly, and vaulted into his bunk. "To hell with _all_ of you."

OoOoOoOoO

Newkirk readjusted his position, on the off chance that a few inches one way or the other would suddenly wring something approaching comfort from the wooden bench in his cell. He considered counting the bricks in the wall again—you never knew; they might have added one or two since the last time he'd checked—but decided to postpone that particular source of amusement for another couple of hours. He wasn't altogether sure he could handle the excitement.

He hoped they'd empty the slop bucket sometime soon. Three days in, it was getting a bit ripe. He _thought_ it had been three days since the last time they'd cleared it. Always the chance he'd miscalculated, of course. He could chew on both sides of his mouth again, so maybe it was closer to four.

He wondered how LeBeau was doing. He was pretty sure that the Frenchman had gotten away clean; the guards wouldn't have been nearly as interested in hearing his full and complete recounting of the events of the burglary if they'd had any idea who his accomplice had been. And they had been quite eager for him to tell them all about it, which was actually why the left side of his jaw (among a varied assortment of other places, alas,) had been a bit tender in the first place. An inveterate showman, he never could resist an appreciative audience, which was why, after a few hours of their enthusiastic encouragement to do so, he'd broken down and regaled them with the whole sad story. He only hoped that they had enjoyed their snipe hunt through the camp records looking for Private A. J. Raffles of the RAF even half as much as he'd enjoyed sending them on it.* Bastards.

It had been a fool's errand from the first, and he knew it. Had known it from the start. There had never been a great deal of hope that he— that _they—_ could accomplish anything much more than forestalling the inevitable for a couple of days. At best, a few weeks. He wasn't entirely sure why fighting for those few extra days of privation and misery had seemed so utterly important. They were all dead men walking, anyhow; he'd known _that_ from the start, too.

But it was important. God only knew why, (and since He'd never bothered telling Newkirk anything else, he wasn't expecting any answers this time, either,) but for whatever reason, it was important. The men needed help. He barely knew half of them, and, of those he did know, he didn't even really _like_ half of them. And he wasn't fool enough to think that the feeling wasn't mutual; people went cold and numb very quickly in the soul-rotting conditions of the camp, and chances were that most of them wouldn't bother to piss on him if he were on fire. Nonetheless… it was important.

They'd still had a few odds and sods hidden under the floorboards the night of their ill-fated cupboard raid, and he already knew that Louie had a gift for doing quite a lot with very little. Perhaps the weaker residents of Barracks Two would have a couple more decent meals before… well, before.

He swore under his breath. And, because he desperately needed to head off that train of thought before it hurtled off a cliff and took what was left of his sanity with it, he began counting the bricks yet again.

OoOoOoO

Author's note: Arthur J. Raffles was the main character of a series of novellas and short stories that were, essentially, Sherlock Holmes rip-offs, with the single difference that Raffles was a thief and safecracker rather than a detective. The original canon was written in the 1900s, (by Arthur Conan Doyle's brother-in-law, as it happens,) but the series was continued, by a different writer, in the 1930s and early 1940s. They were quite popular; basically, Newkirk has just admitted to pulling off a caper with Don Corleone or Wile E. Coyote. And the Germans fell for it. His sense of humor is going to get him killed one of these days.


	7. Chapter 7

The weather had finally remembered that it was supposed to be edging into spring, and the morning Newkirk was, grudgingly, allowed to return to the barracks was almost pretty. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the trees on the other side of the barbed wire flaunted their buds and blossoms like so many dancers. They stood out in painful contrast to the stark ugliness of the guard towers, and it almost seemed like calculated mockery. The winter had been cruel, but that was to be expected. The starkness had at least matched the rest of their surroundings. Somehow the flamboyant new growth as the woods sprang back to life was crueler, a harsh reminder of everything they had lost.

Newkirk winced as the sunlight hit him for the first time in forty-five days, and he shaded his sensitized eyes with his hand, but he smiled when he saw LeBeau waiting for him by the water tower. "Oi, LeBeau! Fancy meeting you 'ere."

"Welcome back, _mon ami_ ," LeBeau said, carefully hiding his horror at the other man's wasted appearance. "It's good to see you again."

"You too, mate," Newkirk said cheerfully. "Keeping well, I 'ope?"

"Me, I am perfectly fine," LeBeau said. "How are you?"

"Never better," Newkirk said, firmly dismissing the topic. "A nice little 'oliday away from the cares of the workaday world; who could complain? What's new? Any good gossip going about?"

"Let me see. Barracks Three won this month's football tournament, but their star player managed to break his left foot, so they will probably lose the title next month."

"That's Peterson, right? The one what looks like a bear who's 'ad a shave?"

" _Oui_ , that is correct."

"Poor sod. Did the Krauts let 'im see a sawbones?"

LeBeau assumed, correctly, that meant 'doctor.' "There is a medic in Barracks Four. He was able to set the break. And he said that if Peterson had not been purposely trying to kick his opponents rather than the ball, the accident would not have happened in the first place, so nobody is feeling very sorry for him."

Newkirk laughed. "Sounds about right. Dirtiest player in camp. I'm pretty sure I still have a dent in me shin shaped like Peterson's boot, all the way back from the last time I played. Well, until 'e's back to 'is nasty old self again, we might 'ave a chance at winning a game once in a while. Or at least get through a quarter without ending up black and blue."

"I doubt it. Four new prisoners were brought in from Russia, and two of them make Peterson look like a model of decorum."

"Charming. Well, I'll reckon up the odds after I see their form. Might lose the games, but could end up winning the wagers… and that's what really counts, right?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes mockingly. "You are a true sportsman."

"You know it," Newkirk agreed. "Right then. Four new Russians in the neighborhood, the football scores… what's the bit you're trying to avoid mentioning?"

They were almost at the door of Barracks Two; there was no chance of keeping it hidden much longer anyhow. "What do you want me to say? That you look like a ghost?"

"Now, see, if you were a gorgeous bird, I might actually care about your opinion of me looks," Newkirk said lightly. "As it is, you can keep your silver tongued flattery to yourself. How're your mate Dubois and 'is lot?"

LeBeau winced. "I do not know. They were caught digging a tunnel. _Our pig of a Kommandant_ transferred them all to another camp."

Newkirk went very still. "Oh, bloody 'ell. I'm sorry, Louie. I didn't know."

"Of course you did not. How could you?" He sighed. "They were so close. Another couple of days and… well."

"Yeah," Newkirk said, to spare LeBeau from having to go into any more detail. He'd been a part of a couple of abortive tunnel projects himself, and, frankly, he didn't trust them. The one the Krauts had found had, in retrospect, been the _successful_ one. The one that had collapsed on them… well, that was something he tried not to think about. "That really is rough, mate. I'm sorry."

LeBeau just nodded. "It has… it has not been a good time for any of us. Many bad things happened."

"I see," Newkirk said dully. " _Many_ bad things. So there _is_ more to the story, then."

"I am afraid so," LeBeau said. He opened the door, and they walked in.

Newkirk looked around. "Well, well… same old rattrap of a barracks, same old leak in the ceiling, same old smell of dirty socks and secondhand cabbage. It certainly is good to be 'ome." He sat down at the table, steepled his hands, and took a deep breath. "All right, I'm ready, mate. Let me 'ave it. What aren't you telling me?"

Richmond cleared his throat. "Er… well, Newkirk? You were next up on the queue. And there's space with me."

Newkirk blinked, then an unreadable expression washed over his face. "Oh, no. Damn it, no. Who? When?"

"Callahan. A couple of weeks after you went in. We… well, we expected it," Forrest said quietly.

" _Damn_ this war," Newkirk said, venom in his voice. "This filthy, filthy, sodding war... No, Richmond, whoever 'ad the spot while I was in can keep it. Chances are I'll be back in the cooler soon enough, anyway." With no further ado, he got up, kicked the door violently open, and strode out into the compound.

LeBeau found himself halfway out the door before he knew he was on his feet. The look on his barracksmate— his accomplice—his _friend's_ face had been genuinely frightening. Half-afraid that Newkirk was going to take the opportunity to avenge Callahan's death by attacking the nearest German and devil take the consequences, and more than half-afraid that he'd take it into his head to do something worse, LeBeau scanned the yard until he saw the lanky figure just disappearing behind the habitually padlocked recreation hall.

He followed. "Pierre?"

Newkirk stopped, turned around. "Oh… that you, Louie? 'Ello, mate." His voice was bleak, his expression bleaker.

"I… I wanted to offer my condolences. He was your friend?"

" _Callahan_? A friend?" he asked, then chuckled. The laugh was the bleakest of all. "Not by a long chalk. Couldn't stand the tosser. Stupid, stingy, snobbish, short-tempered, selfish, stubborn, and 'e snored like a bleeding jet engine. And those were his _good_ points. Second biggest waste of skin God ever created."

LeBeau blinked, a sympathetic speech withering unspoken on his lips. He had been expecting a somewhat tenderer sort of eulogy, and had no ready answer for that. "But… if he was not your friend, why are you upset? Why were you worried when he first became ill?"

"I said I didn't like 'im, not that I wished any 'arm on the bloke," Newkirk evaded. "Can't a man show a little solidarity with 'is fellow-sufferers without all the ruddy questions?"

"That is not all. You are not telling me everything," LeBeau said. "We said no more lies."

"…Fine. Fine! You want the whole rotten story? 'Ere's the meat of it. Callahan and I, we were on the same transport into camp. It was only 'alf-built when we rolled in. There were eighteen of us crammed into the back of a truck that was meant for _maybe_ ten, all of us battered and bloody and scared out of our wits. They 'ad us chained together like dogs, and we were more or less certain that we were all 'eaded straight for a shallow ditch in the woods," Newkirk said, glaring into the past. "Eighteen. And now I'm the last of the lot. Transferred, dead, or worse, no one's left who was 'ere when I came."

"Oh," LeBeau said softly.

"Yeah. 'Oh.' He was it, mate. Now I'm officially the oldest lag in the place." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and forced himself to keep his voice casual. "Daresay that means I'm up next. And I think… oh, sod it all, I think it'll be a _bloody damned relief_. I've 'ad enough."

"No. No! You must not talk so," LeBeau said, emphasizing the command with a sharp jab to his shoulder. "We will survive this, _mon ami_. You will survive."

"Yeah, Louie. You're right. I probably will," Newkirk shot back. "That's what I do, seems like. Me old crewmates, the lads back 'ome, other kriegies 'ere in camp, no matter what, famine, flood, or fire, if one man's going to walk out without a scratch, it'll be old Peter. God doesn't want me and the Devil can't be bothered."

LeBeau swallowed. "A talent I seem to share," he admitted. "My own crewmates… I do not think any of them even got out of the plane. I wondered, why me? Am I so much better a man than they, to deserve a miracle? I think not. And again, when we ran from the guard; why were you caught and not I? Is it all simply chance? I come to think it is harder to live, to accept being the lucky one, than it is to die."

"You call this luck? For that matter, you call this _living_? I'm starting to think that I didn't make it out of the plane after all. Maybe this _is_ 'Ell, and the vicar was just wrong about it being full of fire. It makes more bloody _sense_."

Newkirk wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore, but he couldn't stop the flow of bitter words; a year of being very brave, of never letting anyone— not kriegie, not Kraut, not _anyone_ —see him as anything other than reckless, cocky, and perhaps a bit mad was catching up with him all at once. He'd watched too many men die. He'd heard too many garbled snippets of what was happening to his country, his city, his _sister,_ without the luxury of knowing anything for certain. He'd spent too much time staring at the bars of a cage and not letting himself admit that he was terrified.

And now, all at once, for reasons he didn't even understand, the death of a man he probably would have disliked if he'd cared enough about him to put in the requisite effort had brought all of it to the surface, spilling it profligately on the ground at LeBeau's feet. As if the Frenchman needed to be burdened with his nonsense. As if _anyone_ needed to hear him whinging like a child. Ashamed of his outburst—ashamed of _himself_ —he turned half away, reached into a pocket for his cigarettes, and stuck one in his mouth like a cork. Fumbling with his lighter, his long, clever fingers finally betrayed him; they were shaking too badly to strike a light, and it was the final straw. "Oh, God," he murmured, defeated at last. "Oh, my God."

Gently, LeBeau took the lighter from his hands and flicked it to life. Wordlessly, he held out the tiny flame. Newkirk just stared at it for a moment, then leaned forward and lit the cigarette, nodding his thanks. "I'm sorry, mate," he said, trying to redon the tattered remnants of his usual insouciance. He wasn't terribly successful, but he tried. "Don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."

"Whatever for? When last I became upset with the unfairness of the world, I hit you, _don't you remember?_ You have done nothing worse than smoke without offering one to me." LeBeau smiled, making it obvious that he understood... and that he would never mention this episode to anyone. That they were back to their usual patterns.

And it worked; Newkirk let out an involuntary bark of laughter. "Fair enough, mate," he said, tossing LeBeau the pack. "You've already got the lighter; 'elp yourself." And as LeBeau did just that, Newkirk said, very quietly, "Thanks, Louie. Thanks for… well, everything. Thanks for listening."

" _But of course_ ," LeBeau said. "We will take turns, yes? Next time I am in despair, you will listen."

"Next time you're in despair, don't bloody 'it me again, that's all I ask," Newkirk said, feeling a hint of a grin flicker across his face. A real one.

"I make no promises, _mon ami_ ," LeBeau deadpanned.

"It figures," Newkirk said. "Ah, well. I lived with a Peterson-shaped dent in me shin, I can 'andle a Louie-shaped dent or two. It'll be smaller, at least."

LeBeau snorted. "Do not be so certain of that." After a moment, in a different tone of voice, he said, "No more secrets. It was you who paid Forrest to share his bunk with me, was it not?"

"No, I most certainly did not," Newkirk said promptly. Then, with a rueful shrug, he admitted, "That spot was mine to give. I paid 'im to keep quiet about it and not let you find out."

" _Bon Dieu_ ," LeBeau shook his head. "Why did you do that?"

"Couldn't think of a good reason not to."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Means you were new in camp, with no one in the barracks who even spoke your lingo. You needed a break or two. Plus, you're a little 'un, and I reckoned you'd freeze solid otherwise. Didn't want that to 'appen, now did I? And besides, what I told Richmond was true. I _am_ in the cooler more often than I'm out of it. So what difference, right? It only made sense to trade. Forrest didn't mind; you take up less room than me, and I'm told I kick."

"Still playing the protector. After I told you not to do so. You are stubborn."

"Look who's talking. Look up 'stubborn' in the dictionary; there's a rather nice portrait of you."

"My dictionary has a much different picture," LeBeau mused. "Newer edition. Or perhaps I mean New _kirk_ edition."

"You're a laugh riot, mate," Newkirk said, rolling his eyes. "And as if you're not just as much of a mother 'en."

"Another thing at which we must learn to take turns," LeBeau clinched it. "As I said before. _Les Mousquetaires_. Eh, d'Artagnan?"

"More like the Charge of the Light Brigade, Lord Cardigan," Newkirk replied.

"Half a league onwards," LeBeau agreed. "Come. Let us go back to the barracks."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: 'The Three Musketeers,' ironically enough, ends with the main characters splitting up and going their separate ways, leaving d'Artagnan alone and fairly miserable about it. 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' by Tennyson, commemorated one of the most impressively stupid disasters in British military history, under the spectacularly inept command of one Lord Cardigan. (And yes, the sweater was named after him. From what I can tell, it was about his only positive contribution to history.) Both Newkirk and LeBeau are being a bit facetious.


	8. Chapter 8

Life, such as it was, went on. It became an accepted fact of life that the camp had acquired its very own Mutt and Jeff. (Of course, there was the minor difficulty that neither of the men concerned recognized the reference, but nothing is ever perfect.) Newcomers were often taken slightly aback upon seeing them in action; the two of them sniped at each other constantly, unmercifully, and not at all subtly, which occasionally led some poor greenhorn to make the mistake of saying anything even the slightest bit uncomplimentary about either. At which point he found himself facing a united front, and no one ever tried it a second time.

They covered for each other with the Germans. Backed each other up with the other prisoners, not all of whom subscribed to the 'we're all in this together' school of thought as regarded their captivity. Newkirk still bounced in and out of the cooler like a blue-clad pinball—over the course of that desperate first year, he'd built up a reputation as an incorrigible troublemaker, and that made him an easy scapegoat when the guards needed to look as though they were earning their pay—but he had stopped indiscriminately lashing out or antagonizing the guards. He didn't need to anymore. Solitary confinement had, quietly and unobtrusively, ceased to be the mechanism he used to protect himself _from_ himself, and his behavior reflected that.

…Mostly.

While they did not resume their larder raids—both were painfully aware that that the Kommandant's promise to halve their bread rations was no idle threat—Newkirk did discover a certain flair for black marketing, and LeBeau an ability to strike the fear of God into any grocer who attempted to palm off bad produce. Some of the more easygoing and/or corrupt guards could be bought, and it helped immeasurably. It could not be said that the men of Barracks Two ate _well_. But they did eat.

LeBeau managed—somehow— to pull Newkirk through a bout of cholera that everyone, including the medics, agreed he'd had no chance to survive. And when LeBeau, with a deep gash on his calf that was most emphatically _not_ caused by a less than successful attempt at circumventing the barbed wire fence, no sir, absolutely not, began displaying signs of blood poisoning, Newkirk tended him round the clock; the general consensus was that he must have bullied, browbeaten, or otherwise irritated the Angel of Death into leaving the Frenchman alone, because it certainly was not attributable to any known medical technique or treatment.

In short, as LeBeau had put it, they 'took turns.' Having someone to lean on made camp life survivable, but no less hellish, and there were no shortage of dark times for any of them. Birthdays, holidays, and, perhaps worst of all, camp anniversaries came and went, grim reminders of the passage of time; wasted time that none of them were ever going to get back. LeBeau celebrated his birthday and his sixth month of imprisonment in the same week, if 'celebration' could be said to be the correct word. It hit him hard, but, credit where it was due, he kept his word; no one else was hit, either metaphorically or literally.

It was the same with news of the world outside. There was no radio in camp, no newspapers, not even mail; nothing but whatever propaganda the Germans chose to inflict on them. The old-timers were hungrier for information than they were for anything else—food, drink, or even sex, which was saying one hell of a lot—but when they received it, usually via new prisoners, who could be counted on to know at least vague outlines of how the war was truly going, it was equal parts pleasure and pain. On the one hand, they desperately needed to know what was happening back home, needed to remember what they had been fighting for in the first place, needed to remember that the world outside the fence still existed. On the other hand, so much of the news was so unrelentingly bad that, in retrospect, even the uncertainty seemed kinder by comparison. Newkirk's reaction to hearing about the Blitz, after it had already been going on for months, was something LeBeau never liked to remember afterwards.

Late that summer, the Kommandant—a lovely fellow by the name of Muller, just the nicest bloke you could ever hope to see drawn and quartered—was caught doing… something… and was replaced. None of the prisoners ever found out exactly what he'd done. Some theorized that he'd been caught with his fingers in the camp till; others disagreed. That is to say, no one doubted that he'd been lining his own pockets at their expense, but they thought that any brass who happened to learn of it would, in all likelihood, have simply demanded a piece of the action, received it, and the matter would have ended there. Some thought that the Kommandant had been caught doing something unnatural, something the Nazis frowned upon; probably involving farm animals in some way. Others, less given to inquiry and introspection, just shrugged it off as God's justice finally catching up with the old fiend. The truth, as it happened, was simpler and uglier; it seemed that he had a Jewish grandmother, and he also had enemies who did not hesitate to make use of that fact. As a loyal Party member, he was allowed the option of handling the matter quietly, and he took it. Perhaps the irony of his situation crossed his mind before the bullet did. Or perhaps not. Not that it mattered much either way.

In any case, Muller's replacement, one Major Lange, turned up, and the prisoners realized how good they'd had it up until then. That however bad things seemed, they could always become worse. And then, what with one thing and another, 1941 was gone.

Richmond was halfheartedly sweeping the Kommandant's office one morning—so far as he was concerned, the Jerries could force him to work, but they could not force him either to care or to do a good job—when he heard the man talking on the telephone. Richmond's German was scanty at best, but he had picked up enough to understand words such as 'important,' 'inspection,' and, most importantly, 'Red Cross.'

Deciding that the office looked clean enough to be going on with, he hurried back to the barracks.

"I was just in the office," he said. "Lackwit Lange was on the telephone. From what I could make out, the Red Cross will be coming here to perform an inspection. I don't know when, but I'd imagine it's soon."

LeBeau smiled. "Wonderful! We will have a great deal to tell them when they arrive. Should we list our complaints alphabetically, or in order of importance?"

"Oh, for my money, I'd say the latter, unquestionably. This could be it," Forrest said, his sunken eyes lighting up. "This could be our salvation. The Red Cross takes a dim view of the sort of cruelty and neglect that's par for the course around here. All we have to do is get one of us close enough to the representative to pass on a letter detailing the conditions, and they'll have to do something about it!"

"Even if we can't get close enough to contact them directly, they're bound to do a barracks inspection," Richmond said. "We're stacked in here like cordwood. There's no way that's permissible under the Geneva Conventions."

"They'll do a barracks inspection, all right," Newkirk cut in. "And I'll bet you anything you care to name that they'll be shown around a bleeding palace, with two blankets for every man and fluffy new mattresses, a roaring fire in the stove and probably gingham curtains at the windows. Then Lange will show them the mess, and stone the crows, what'll they see but the Krauts fixing us a three course gourmet meal, with port and cigars to follow. We'll all be deloused for the occasion, the guards will smile for the camera, and everything will look as pretty as a picture. And five minutes after the Red Cross blokes 'ave finished their tea and been sent on their merry way, they'll strip us back down to nothing."

"We can still tell them the truth, no matter what sort of show the _Boche_ put on," LeBeau said. "A letter, as Forrest said, if nothing else."

Newkirk shook his head. "We say anything— _anything_ —to make the Kommandant look bad, and they'll put us through the tortures of the damned. Lange can't risk a bad report. Not after what 'appened to Muller. Even if the Red Cross geezers believe our story, they won't 'ave the authority to do anything on the spot. Not worth it."

"I never took you for a coward," Richmond said.

"Well, there was your _first_ mistake," Newkirk shot back. "But one thing you can say for us cowards—we tend to think out all the angles before we make our move, instead of rushing in with the fools."

"What are you suggesting, then? That we lie? That we say all is well when it is not?" LeBeau asked. "How will that improve anything at all?"

"Yes. We're going to say just exactly what the Krauts would want us to say. 'The Kommandant is very 'umane. The Germans are very good to us. We're treated according to the Geneva Convention. No complaints, sir.' But there are ways and ways of saying it, if you get me drift."

Forrest looked disgusted. "What on earth are you talking about? This could be our only chance, Newkirk!"

Newkirk nodded. "Too right, it could," he agreed. "Look. It's like this." He smiled, clapped a congratulatory hand on Forrest's shoulder. "You're a fine fellow, mate," he said heartily. Then he turned to Richmond and snorted, a look of utter disdain on his face. " _You're_ a fine fellow, mate," he sneered, straight-arming him back a pace or two. His demeanor altering yet again, he sidled closer to LeBeau, ran a teasing hand up the chef's bicep, and purred, "And you're a _fine_ fellow… mate."

LeBeau pulled away, annoyed. Newkirk laughed. "See? Same words every time. Same actions, even—my right 'and to your left shoulder. And three different messages that not even a fool could mistake. That's what we're going to do."

"Watch who you're shoving; I outrank you." Richmond made a face. "I'd rather take our chances with the letter, if it's all the same to you. You're seriously suggesting we flirt with the Red Cross representatives?"

"What you do in your spare time's no business of mine, but no. Not flirting. We're just going to tell them that the ruddy Krauts treat us better than our own mums did. And before I forget, someone do me a favor and belt me one, all right? Something nice and visible."

The other men exchanged looks. "He's gone mad," Forrest said, with genuine pity in his voice.

"I most certainly 'ave not. Go on. Blacken me eye," Newkirk urged.

"Why?"

Newkirk sighed. "So I can stand before the Red Cross looking like five miles of bad road and swear on me mother's grave that the Krauts didn't work me over."

"Newkirk, what the hell are you talking about?"

"This. I'm talking about _this_ ," he said. Before their eyes, his body language shifted one more time; he cowered, suddenly seeming smaller, and the palpable terror in his face was unnerving. "What, sir? No, sir… the Germans are… they're very good to us, sir," he got out, his eyes flicking back and forth between Forrest and an imaginary guard, silently begging for approval, and he made a small, nervous sound, somewhere between a cowed whimper and a hysterical giggle. His breath came in short, panicky gasps. "What's that, sir? Was I beat? N-no, no! No, sir; I… they're very good to us. They're… they're very 'umane. Very… 'umane. Sir." He straightened back up, shedding the servile cringe and sliding back to his usual persona so swiftly as to be almost disconcerting. "Now, if it were you, would you believe a single word of that rubbish?"

Forrest blinked. "No. No, I wouldn't," he said slowly. He nodded as it all came together. "And not a word in it that Jerry could object to."

"Right. We all say the same words in the same order, and it'll sound memorized and phony. Reel it off like you're 'alf asleep, or cringe and repeat yourself a lot, or just stare at your shoes and mumble, but it'll set off an alarm or two in their 'eads, if anything will."

"…Right, I see. It'll look like the Krauts beat those answers into us," Richmond said. "That's actually pretty damned clever."

"Glad you approve. We've got to work fast; this won't work unless every man in camp is on the same page."

"The Kommandant is very humane. The Germans are very good to us. We're treated according to the Geneva Convention. No complaints, sir," Forrest ticked them off on his fingers. "Anything we're asked, that's what we answer."

Newkirk nodded. "Exactly. Tell them what they want to 'ear, and with any luck, they'll 'ear what we want them to know. It's not always what you say. It's 'ow you say it, eh, Louie? Pleasure to meet you, right?"

" _Screw you, too,_ " LeBeau agreed, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "What are we waiting for? Let us go talk to the men in the other barracks."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Mutt and Jeff were the titular characters of a well-known American comic strip, running from the early 1900s to the 80s. Mutt (the tall one) and Jeff (the short one) were a pair of schemers, so it fits, but their outstanding physical characteristic, the one usually being referenced when their names are used as descriptors, was the extreme and comical difference in their heights. I stretched a point in not having Newkirk recognize the names; I don't know if the strip ever made it to France, but it was popular enough in England that 'Mutt and Jeff,' sometimes elided to simply 'mutton,' was incorporated into rhyming slang as a term meaning 'deaf.'


	9. Chapter 9

The sun gleamed dully off the barbed wire; it was about the only thing in the camp that hadn't been spit-polished for the occasion. The Red Cross representatives, two of them, were accompanied by several black-clad SS agents who were doing their level best to mask their normal grim demeanors behind masks of stiff geniality. Colonel Lange met them at the gate, his men ranged behind him at rigid attention. He was also doing his best to mask his usual expression of sly cruelty behind a patently false smile; it mostly made him look constipated, or as if he'd just bitten into an apple and found half a worm, but the effort was there.

The prisoners were also arranged for inspection in front of their barracks. They all looked neat and clean; as Newkirk had predicted, they'd been freshly deloused, laundry soap had been issued for the first time in three months, and the camp barber had made the rounds, doing a slightly less ham-handed job than usual. No two sideburns in the entire camp were the same length, but everyone _had_ two of them, for a change.

The senior Red Cross official, a man called Stephens, strolled past the men of Barracks Three, a guard at his elbow. He was a bit unnerved; he counted twenty-seven men, and twenty-six of them had thousand yard stares that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. The twenty-seventh, a red-haired sergeant, just looked tired and defeated.

The guard paused in front of the barracks and barked, " _Achtung!_ "

The dead-eyed men snapped to attention, still without altering their numb expressions an iota. "Oh, good heavens; no need for that. Er, at ease," Stephens said, uncomfortably.

They didn't budge. With a smirk, the German left them waiting for a moment, showing his power, before repeating the order and letting them relax. "This is Sergeant O'Meara," said the guard, reading from his clipboard. "The barracks chief."

"I'm Gerald Stephens, from the International Red Cross," he said. "Nice to meet you, Sergeant."

"Yes sir thank you sir," said O'Meara in one breath, looking at something just over Stephens' left shoulder. It took Stephens a startled moment to realize that it was the guard, looming behind him like a bad omen. He took a casual step closer to the Irishman, lowered his voice. "Are you treated well, Sergeant? How are the men?"

The sergeant lowered his voice to match, but didn't take his eyes off the guard. "We're treated according to the Geneva Convention, sir. The Kommandant is very humane."

"Very good! Glad to hear it," Stephens said as heartily as he could. He strolled along the row, picked out a scrawny erk who had almost certainly lied about his age to enlist. "What's your name?"

"Slade, sir. Aircraftman, second class," he said. "The Germans are very good to us, sir. We're treated according to the Geneva Convention, sir."

Stephens blinked. He hadn't _asked_ yet. "Well, glad to hear it, Private. Carry on."

It was the same everywhere. How was the food? The Germans were very good to them. Did they need anything? They were treated according to the Geneva Convention. Did they want him to contact their families? The Kommandant was very humane. Even after shaking loose his German handlers, which he would have thought might loosen a few tongues, he got nothing more out of the prisoners than a few mumbled words indicating nothing short of complete satisfaction with their situation.

By now more than a little unnerved, he conferred with his associate; it turned out that both of them had essentially the same story to tell. In the same words. They had inspected a great many POW camps, and they knew what to expect. And what they were seeing was profoundly disturbing.

The prisoners began filing into the mess hall for lunch; Stephens and the other Red Cross representative, a man about ten years his junior, followed. They watched as each prisoner was handed a brimming dish of chicken soup and a healthy chunk of white bread; more precisely, they watched the expressions on their faces.

"Look," Rowland murmured. "The men have been doing an admirable job of play-acting, but they haven't quite been able to keep it up. Look at them. They look like they've just been handed the Holy Grail and the keys to Buckingham Palace, rolled into one. This isn't the usual sort of fare they've been living on."

"Come now, old chap," Stephens muttered back. "I could have told you that ten minutes after we arrived. If these boys were any thinner they'd be transparent."

A small man in a red scarf, who was not quite dragging a taller man in RAF blues, entered the mess hall and shoved his friend into place at the end of the chow line. Neither spoke as the line inched forward. When they reached the front, the small man accepted his tray, then, as if it were routine, turned to make certain that his friend had also been served, grabbed him by the arm, and steered him bodily to a table. Meek and pitiful as a beaten dog, he went where he was told. The smaller man muttered something in French that neither of the Red Cross representatives could quite make out, but the Englishman seemed to have no problem understanding; he cringed visibly, and lowered his head a fraction more.

"Good God," Rowland murmured, aghast. "What in hell did they do to that one?"

Now, as it happened, LeBeau had actually been telling Newkirk that he was the biggest ham this side of John Barrymore, and Newkirk had ducked his head to hide a smirk that would have been distinctly out of character, but as a bit of stage business, the interplay worked quite well, so _that_ was all right.

"You can plainly see, gentlemen," said Lange. "As laid out by the Geneva Convention, the prisoners are more than adequately fed. My own men eat no better."

"Yes, I see," Stephens said inanely. He saw, all right.

One of the German sergeants, a man who, from the looks of him, wasn't missing any meals, and in fact, might be indulging in a few extra, just in case, smiled nervously. "Ja, ja, the prisoners eat very well. Verrrry well. Why, it was only the other day one of them said to me, Sergeant Schultz, he said— because that is my name, I am Sergeant Schultz—he said to me, Sergeant Schultz, never in my life have I had food as good as the food here in Germany!" Warming to his subject, his eyes increasingly desperate as he struggled under the weight of the lies, he continued, "In fact, I would not be in the least surprised if they wanted to stay even after the war is over, because they are all so very, very happy here. No, Herr Stephens, I would not be in the least surprised!"

Stephens and Rowland exchanged glances. "That's very good to hear, Sergeant," Rowland said soothingly, before he could make a third attempt at it. "The prisoners have been telling us how well they are treated, too."

He recoiled, shocked. "They have?" He blinked. "I mean, of _course_ they have. They are all very happy here. Just because they are our enemies does not mean we may not be friends, ja?"

"That is a very enlightened attitude, Sergeant Schultz, and may I say, Kommandant Lange, it does credit to your administration of this camp," Stephens said.

Lange, who had been giving Schultz a very sour look, scrambled to paste the unctuous smile back on his face. "Thank you, gentlemen. But it is the glorious Third Reich I serve that truly deserves the credit."

"I think we can all agree on that," Stephens said, almost under his breath. He took another look around the mess hall. Some of the men were hunched over their trays as if they expected them to be taken away at any moment. They probably _did_ expect just that, and were inhaling the food, taking no chances. Others were eating slowly, with a sort of disbelieving reverence that made something in his chest twist painfully. The Kommandant could make a show of this single meal, but he could not disguise the gauntness that marked every man in his custody. He could force his charges to feign, if not happiness, at least content, but he could not force them to make it believable. This was wrong; everything about this camp was subtly wrong.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"I think we're getting through to them," Richmond murmured. "The one in the brown suit with the glasses—he keeps looking around when he thinks Lange isn't watching, and he looks like he's about to jump out of his skin."

"Spoke with him earlier. He asked me about the mail situation," Forrest muttered back. "Whether we were getting our packages regularly, you know."

"Which did you tell him? That the Geneva Convention is kept or how good the Germans are?" asked LeBeau. "This soup is not bad, but I would have added some rosemary."

"Both, actually," Forrest said. "I _wanted_ to tell him to ask Lange. If that old vulture isn't selling them on the black market, I'll eat my hat. And please—don't mention Rosemary. I had a sweetheart by that name, before the war."

" _I beg your pardon,_ " LeBeau apologized. "What about garlic? Does anyone have any objections to that?"

"Mate, we all 'ave to share one very cramped little barracks. _Everyone_ would object to you putting more garlic in the food," Newkirk murmured, his shoulders still hunched defensively. "There's a serious shortage of working gas masks in camp, after all."

"I did not ask you. I asked for the opinion of those whose taste I respect. You, _uncouth peasant that you are,_ would not know fine _cuisine_ if it bit you in the nose," LeBeau said with no particular heat. Newkirk was still very much in character, and there was just no fun to be had in taunting a man who looked as though he expected to be hit at any moment.

"Me nose is the whole ruddy issue," Newkirk, who had no such problems, replied. "After that last pot of stew, we 'ad three dozen men all sweating aioli, and we're not due another shower for a fortnight. I thought I was going to suffocate before dawn. And by midnight, when the _other_ issue started up, I flat out 'oped I _would_."

Forrest stifled a chuckle that would have given the whole game away. "That's quite enough of that," he said, before LeBeau could return fire. "Look, we've got the Red Cross chaps thinking. That's as good a start as we could have hoped for, I daresay. You're all doing a perfectly splendid job of it, but we can't let ourselves get sloppy. We've a ways to go yet."

"I think we're supposed to have a lovely game of football during our exercise period," Richmond said, wiping his dish clean with the last bite of bread. "They might even give us a real football this time."

"Be still, my heart. Think we can get Lange to referee?"

"Better yet; think we can get 'im to _play_? I promise—I'll only foul 'im four, maybe five times at the most. 'Is eyes will uncross by Thursday, I'm sure, and there's probably a dentist in Hammelberg who could fix 'im up afterwards."

LeBeau, for want of a napkin, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand until he thought he could be trusted not to smile. "Peterson is not yet recovered enough to do it. Perhaps you should."

"Good God, LeBeau; don't encourage him," Forrest sighed. "Newkirk, Lange would have you drawn and quartered; please don't make me have to watch that."

"Well, then. I'd certainly 'ate to inconvenience you gents," Newkirk said. "So I guess— Oi! 'Ere comes trouble."

As Stephens approached, he saw rather than heard the men go silent; they'd been speaking far too softly for any stray words to escape the narrow confines of their bench, but even that low murmur died away. Three of the men looked up at him immediately; the small man in red with a burning anger in his eyes that his blank expression could not entirely negate, the two sergeants, one looking exhausted, the other sullen. With a sharp nudge in the ribs that looked as though it was trying to be unobtrusive, the Frenchman got his friend to look up as well, and Stephens found himself staring into a pair of green eyes that seemed to reflect all the horrors that man had ever devised to inflict on his fellow man.

He took an involuntary step back.

One of the others, the weary one, tried to smile. "Sir. Sergeant Forrest, RAF," he said.

"Stephens," he said briefly. "I… ah, well. Pleasure to make your acquaintances. How long have you chaps been... here?"

The sullen one pursed his lips. "Not sure, sir. What month is it?" Recalling his manners, he ripped off a salute. "Sergeant Richmond, RAF, sir."

"November," Stephens said quietly. "Seventeenth of November. 1941." He wasn't sure why he had tacked on that last bit. Surely they knew what year it was. They had to. Hadn't they?

"Eighteen months, then, sir," said Forrest. "Both Richmond and I. Since Dunkirk, sir. But we've been treated according to the Geneva Convention," he tacked on, as something of an afterthought.

"Corporal Louis LeBeau, Free French Air Force, sir. Thirteen months, sir," said the angry one, in a measured tone that did nothing to hide the bitterness. " _Les Allemands,_ they have been very good to us."

The silence dragged on for a moment, just this side of unbearable. Eventually Forrest, biting his lip, said, "And this is Corporal Peter Newkirk. RAF. He's… I think it's been two years. Or thereabouts. Sir."

LeBeau nudged him again. Thus prompted, he whispered, "I… I 'ave no complaints. Sir."

Richmond's lip twitched. "Please, sir; no offense intended. He's… a quiet sort, sir. Never has very much to say."

LeBeau, emotional Frenchman that he was, had to look away for a moment, overcome.

"I see," Stephens said. "Well. Keep your chins up, gentlemen; the war can't last forever," he said inanely. Wanting, very, very badly, to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He was saved by the rotund German sergeant, who, at some unspoken signal from the Kommandant, had apparently decided that luncheon was over. "Achtung!" he bellowed. "Raus, raus! Everybody, back to the barracks! Back, back, back! Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei!" He glanced at the Kommandant, and added, "If you please, mein Herren?"

In the first coordinated move Stephens had yet seen from him, the corporal was on his feet, at such rigid attention that he all but vibrated. He was followed, a heartbeat or so later, by the rest of the men, and in a matter of moments, the entire mess hall was empty as they were marched away, leaving behind them only the Red Cross representatives, the Kommandant, and a silence filled with appalling questions and even more appalling suspicions.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the barracks, they were finally able to let out the accumulated laughter of a fairly tense morning.

Despite the nervous tension that still screamed through his every fiber, Newkirk looked, and sounded, as smug as the cat who'd caught the canary and topped it off with a pint of cream. The scam was working; he could just _tell_ it was working. A couple more hours, a few days for the report to make it up the chain, and then… well, actually, probably not much.

The Red Cross would know that conditions were bad. They probably already suspected—how could they _not?—_ but now they would know. Given that knowledge, they might be able to bring some pressure to bear on Berlin, or they might not. If they did try to make Berlin toe the mark, the Krauts might comply, or they might respond by making the problem— and the prisoners— disappear. The kriegies of Stalag 13 might well go to join the Glorious Fallen, but they bloody well wouldn't go quietly. London would know that they had fought with everything they had, and the kriegies would know that they had at least given the Allies the information and thus the ammunition that might help save others. If that was all the satisfaction he and his mates were going to get from it, then so be it. It wasn't enough, not by a long shot, but it was something. It was something to be proud of, if nothing else.

For now, they laughed; laughed at the madness of it all, laughed for the sheer relief that, at last, they were no longer alone. The world beyond the wire, as personified by a pair of weedy looking civilians, had heard their voices. Through the unlikely mechanism of silence, _they_ _had been heard_. It was glorious. It was bittersweet. It was ridiculous. And they laughed, because it was that or cry.

"Pierre, _mon pote_ , you are dreadful," LeBeau said, when he could speak again. "Positively cruel. That poor man will never be the same."

"Good," Newkirk said, grinning like a fox. "Could probably do with a bit of a change."

"I just hope the poor blighter can keep it together long enough to write his report," Richmond said. "I thought he was going to faint dead away at your feet."

"Oh, as if you lot weren't just as bad. What _month_ is it? We're POWs, not the bloody Count of Monte Cristo!"

"That was hardly his most inventive lie," LeBeau said meaningfully.

Forrest laughed out loud. "True. When he got to the bit about how quiet a fellow Newkirk is, I thought I was going to give the whole show away right then and there."

"I know, I know; completely unbelievable. Perhaps, old chap, you should practice this role a bit more. Say, the next six months or so?"

"Insults and abuse, that's all I get around 'ere. Some bloody mates _you_ lot are," Newkirk mock-grumbled, rolling his eyes. "At least the Krauts don't bother pretending they're on my side!"

"Ah, Pierre, we are simply trying to help you improve your acting," LeBeau mock-soothed right back. "Do not be so touchy."

"Touchy, 'e says. I'll give you touchy," Newkirk said. "I 'ad to put up with you manhandling me 'alfway across the compound and back. If I don't 'ave five little finger-shaped bruises on me arm tomorrow, it'll be a bleeding miracle."

"The stage is a cruel mistress, and we must all expect to suffer for our art," LeBeau said airily. "I knew an actress once—at _Les Folies Bergere_ —who used to tell me so." He thought about that for a moment, a small smile on his face. "Of course, she never seemed to be suffering when we—"

"Please, LeBeau. For the love of God, man, show some mercy. Eighteen months. My heart can't take it," Richmond said.

"Who's concerned with their ruddy ' _eart_? I can think of a few other bits and pieces that are in much greater need of some attention—"

"Well, don't look at me, old chap."

"Believe me, mate, I wasn't. It 'asn't been _that_ long." Newkirk glanced out the window. Hmm. The older of the two visitors—what was his name again? Ah yes, Stephens— closely attended by their beloved Kommandant Lange, the bloody sadistic swine. From the looks of it, he was pontificating to the poor Red Cross geezer, and probably had been for some time. A few paces behind them, his rifle in his hand and a scowl on his face, stomped old Bauer, one of the nastier of the guards.

The stage is a cruel mistress; prison camps are no less so. Newkirk stood up, stretched. "Back in a tick, lads."

"Where are you going? You are supposed to be too traumatized to move."

"I'm just visiting the bleeding latrine, Louie. If you try chivvying me there and walking me through that little chore the way you did lunch, I _will_ end up too flipping traumatized to move, and I can pretty much guarantee that you won't be any better off."

LeBeau snorted agreement as Newkirk stood up, shook himself to loosen stiff muscles, and reassumed his pitiful, broken air as he opened the door and slipped out. "It is… it is almost frightening how well he does that," he said almost to himself.

Forrest ran his fingers through his newly cut hair, and grimaced at the places where the clippers had gouged near-bald spots into his scalp. "I know, LeBeau. Credit where it's due, he's a hell of an actor, but… well. You've been good for him, let me just put it that way."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Newkirk, lending verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative, did in fact visit the latrine. Like everything else in camp, it had been refurbished to a state that rendered it, if not precisely pleasant, at least tolerable, and taking advantage of that doubtless temporary state of affairs was only sensible. Someone had removed the photographs of the Fuhrer that the prisoners habitually tacked to the sides of the slit trenches; that was a pity. It was nice to have something to aim for, after all. They'd simply have to acquire some more newspaper cuttings the next time they emptied the trash. Perhaps a nice picture of Himmler next time.

He took the long way back to the barracks, keeping well behind the little inspection party. This needed careful timing… He'd picked up a fair bit of German, mostly by osmosis, over the course of his stay here in the Rathole Ritz. Some of it was the useful sort of German that led to civil conversations and, occasionally, interesting eavesdropping. Some of it was the sort of German that led to black eyes, split lips and, occasionally, broken ribs.

No prizes for guessing which sort was going to come in handier here and now. _Blimey, if I survive this, LeBeau is going to kill me._ The guard paused for a moment to adjust his belt; Newkirk seized the moment. Sidling up close to Bauer, a winning smile on his face, he quietly made an observation or two on the sensitive subject of Bauer's masculinity, and followed them up with few comments about Bauer's mother that were so filthy that even he almost blushed.

The irony inherent in the fact that he had learned several of the phrases in question from Bauer himself was not lost on Newkirk as the guard, with an infuriated roar, swung the butt of his rifle directly into Newkirk's solar plexus, knocking him to the ground. He curled into a defensive ball, whimpering pitiably, as Bauer followed up that first blow with a flurry of kicks.

" _BAUER!_ " Lange's voice was, if anything, even more enraged than the guard's had been. He had been a few paces ahead; he had therefore not seen or heard anything of the prelude, but he knew that it would not look good in the report. "You idiot! What are you doing? Stop that immediately!"

"Herr Kommandant, this dog of an Englander… he insulted me," Bauer explained. Even he realized, halfway through the sentence, how ridiculous it sounded.

Newkirk, for his part, remained on the ground in a fetal position, protecting his head with his hands and trembling as convincingly as he could. _Right, me old china. Go ahead and try to justify making your boss look bad in front of the outsiders, especially after all the work he's put into soft soaping them. Explain the part the vicious beatings play in your humane and kindly administration of this camp. Go on. I really want to hear it. I'll bet Stephens does, too._

Lange, his veneer of avuncular benevolence shattered beyond repair, was screaming at Bauer. It wasn't especially coherent. It certainly wasn't especially benevolent. It did involve the words 'Russian front,' which he repeated with what must have, for Bauer at least, been more than somewhat alarming frequency, and 'immediate transfer' appeared a few times as well, a few old favorites like 'dummkopf' and 'schweinepriester' made cameo appearances, and when he started discussing the desirability of having Bauer assigned as a human mine flail, Newkirk, unable to resist, peeked up through his fingers. Lange, still howling like a banshee, was storming to his office, with the apparent intent of filling out the transfer paperwork then and there. Bauer, who had been relieved of his rifle, was being frogmarched after him, his arms twisted behind his back by two of his former colleagues, and it would seem that his chances for a long and fulfilling career had just taken an abrupt nosedive.

Stephens, seemingly forgotten, and, for the first time since his arrival, unattended by Germans, bent down to help Newkirk to his feet. "There, now, old chap, you're going to be just fi—oh! It… it's you. Heavens. Take it easy, lad. No one's going to hurt you anymore. Are you all right? Can I help you?"

Newkirk stood up straight. Looking the other man directly in the eye, he nodded sharply. "Too right, you can, sir," he said under his breath. "Look. Rate we're going, none of us will see the end of the war, and we've got men what aren't going to see the end of the year. We're about done in, sir. Either 'elp us, or just send a bomber to put us out of our bloody misery."

Brushing himself off, he started back across the compound. He'd had his head down, and Lange had been somewhat distracted; with any luck, he would get so involved with reducing Bauer to flinders that identifying the prisoner who had spoiled his little pantomime would become a secondary consideration, but there was certainly no use hanging around waiting for the Kommandant's return. It really would be just his luck to get thrown in the cooler as a punishment for being beaten.

Stephens stared at his retreating back. _He did that intentionally. All of it. He incited the guard to attack him… which led to that ghastly temper tantrum from Lange... just so he could talk to me alone? What is going on in this camp?_

Stephens hurried to catch up with the man. "You staged that. The beating… and that performance at lunch! You staged all of it… didn't you?"

"Not me, sir. The Krauts did the staging. I just gave you a little peek at 'ow this place works when your lot isn't nosing around." He opened the door to the barracks, let them both in.

"Pierre! _What the hell happened out there—_ Oh. Monsieur Stephens?" LeBeau looked from Newkirk, who had his arm wrapped around his middle in a way with which they were all, alas, quite familiar, to the man in the neat gray suit, who looked stunned.

"It's all right, Louie. I've… illustrated our situation a bit, is all."

"Who did this? What did you do?"

"Bauer," Newkirk said briefly. "Who looks on track to be taking an extended 'oliday in Stalingrad." He nodded towards Stephens. "None of you lot would 'elp me fake a beating, so I 'ad to do something to show 'im what the screws are like. I think our friend 'ere gets it now."

Forrest exhaled sharply. "Trust you for that, Newkirk. Right, then. Let's start over, shall we, Mr. Stephens, sir?"

"I'd like that, yes," Stephens said. "Now… it's Sergeant Forrest, I believe? Please. I gather that conditions are… shall we say 'not good'?… but what can we do to help? What do you chaps need?"

Richmond barked a laugh. "What _don't_ we need? Food. Heat. Medicines. Blankets. Clothing. The boys who were captured in summer kit are in rather bad straits when winter rolls around."

"We could ring the changes on all the basic necessities we're lacking, namely, all of them, but I'll be blunt. We need a Kommandant who doesn't run his camp as if he'd trying to outdo the damned Marquis de Sade," Forrest said. "Someone who doesn't think the Geneva Convention is a series of, at best, humorous suggestions."

"I don't know if I have the ability to influence German personnel assignments," Stephens said slowly.

"You 'ave the ability to try?" Newkirk's voice was harsh, and his gaze pierced Stephens like a bayonet. "Do the Protecting Powers do any actual ruddy protecting, or are they too busy 'aving tea? We appreciate the sympathy, but if that's all you've got to offer, 'anging around in 'ere won't do any of us much good."

"Oh, you have my word that I'll do my best for you lads," Stephens promised. "I must say, you've changed your tune a bit since lunch. You're quite the actor, Corporal. All of you chaps are. Whichever version of you is the real one, you're quite convincing." He contemplated the men, his eyes hardening as he evaluated. "Yes. Quite convincing indeed."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: To 'ring the changes' means something like 'to be tiresomely thorough, go through all the variations.' It derives from the art of change ringing, a form of music played on church bells that involves playing all the bells in all possible combinations. Given, say, three bells, tuned to A, B, and C, the ringers would first strike the bells in the order ABC, then BAC, CAB, and so forth. Very English, very methodical, very mathematical. It's interesting in the abstract, but when listening to it for more than a couple of minutes at a time, I always start getting the image of a whole lot of assorted cookware falling down a flight of stairs. And a migraine.


	11. Chapter 11

The barracks door swung open, revealing Lange, accompanied by one of the SS men and the portly guard, who, predictably, bellowed, "Achtung!"

All the prisoners were on their feet before he'd reached the second syllable, their faces wary and blank. It did not escape Stephens' notice that they closed ranks, ever so slightly, as if trying to shield Newkirk from Lange's glare.

"Ah, Herr Stephens," Lange said. "I must apologize for leaving you alone. Camp business waits for no man, you understand."

"Of course, Herr Kommandant," Stephens said smoothly. "I've enjoyed meeting with the prisoners; I appreciated your giving me the opportunity."

Lange's face tightened. "I see," he said sharply. "I imagine it has been… enjoyable for them, as well."

"I do hope so," Stephens said smoothly. "They've been telling me quite a bit about your management of this camp, Herr Kommandant, and, frankly, sir, I am quite amazed by what I heard."

The blood drained from Forrest's face; LeBeau flushed, and Richmond's lips tightened. All of them were thinking essentially the same thing, and it was not complimentary. _That damned idiot civilian!_ was perhaps the most printable version, along with some rather vivid images of Lange's likely reaction to this betrayal. Newkirk stayed impassive, mentally cursing himself for bringing the ( _damned idiot civilian_ ) man into the barracks, for starting this whole thing off at all. _Couldn't leave well enough alone. Had to be too bleeding clever for my own good..._

"Yes," Stephens continued. "Obviously, they're all in rather shocking condition, and it's my duty to report that, you see. I had no choice but to ask the men to tell me a bit more about their treatment since their capture. I was appalled to hear how the camp was run under your predecessor, and I must say, sir, it seems that you've jolly well had your work cut out for you bringing them back up to form these last few months. Well done, Kommandant. You've impressed me greatly."

Lange relaxed. "I but do my humble best for the honor of the Fatherland and the Fuhrer," he said airily. "But I was looking for the prisoner that Bauer attacked. I'm sure he is in need of some medical assistance, which I of course would not wish to delay…?" His snakelike eyes darted around the room.

Stephens fielded that one without the slightest hesitation. "Yes, that was rather a bad show all around. I was actually looking for him myself, to make sure he was all right, but no joy. Don't know where he could have gotten to. Perhaps the poor blighter went straight to the infirmary. No one has either entered or left this barracks since I got here."

"I… had not considered that possibility," Lange said. "A good suggestion. I will go there myself to see if he is in any difficulties. Bauer is a disgrace to his uniform; that is not the way we do things here at Stalag 13."

 _I'll just bet it's not._ "I do understand that the strain of his position is quite telling, and that the constant vigilance can take a real toll on a chap, but I was glad to see that you didn't stand for his abuse of power, and I know my superiors will be glad to hear it, too." Stephens shook his head in prissy disappointment. "Some of the facilities we've visited… well. I'm not really at liberty to discuss details, but your camp is certainly not of the ordinary caliber. Not in the least."

The prisoners all heard what the Red Cross representative was truly saying, Stephens was sure. Oddly enough, the fat German guard seemed to hear it, too, and his eyes as he scanned the prisoners, (including, emphatically, a corporal who was doing an admirable impersonation of a wax effigy,) was concerned, almost tender. The SS man was just this side of a sneer, but then he usually was. Lange, it seemed, was taking it all at face value. And thank heaven for that.

"So anyway, Kommandant, if you were going to look for the injured fellow, I'd hate to keep you. I know how seriously you take your responsibilities to your men," Stephens finished, fully aware that he was slathering it on a bit thickly, but wanting the Nazi gone.

"Ja. Ja… I must see that he has not been hurt," said Lange, still looking daggers at the prisoners, but in a distracted way that said clearly that he had bigger fish to fry. He turned on his heel and strode away, accompanied by the SS officer. The camp guard hesitated a moment, shook his head reproachfully at Newkirk, with the barest hint of a twinkle in his eyes, then hurried after his Kommandant.

Three of the men sat limply down, relief written clearly on their faces. Newkirk stayed standing a moment longer, pupils dilated with shock, dragging in a ragged breath as he tried to process what had just happened. As the life began to flow back into his face, he shot Stephens a practiced smile. "Thank you, sir. Wasn't exactly looking forward to another cooler stay."

"Cooler?" Nothing by that name had featured on his tour of the camp facilities.

"Solitary," Richmond translated. "And the cooler was a best-case scenario," he finished, under his breath. He'd genuinely expected to see the man dragged out and shot.

Newkirk just shrugged, unfazed, or at least, a reasonable facsimile thereof. He'd expected it, too. "So, getting back to business, gents…?"

Stephens nodded. "I'll be in touch," he said. "For now, though, it will look very suspicious if I hang about here for too much longer. Sergeant, if you could help me find my way back? I believe my associate was supposed to be inspecting the recreation hall."

"It will be pristine," Forrest said, getting to his feet. "We're never permitted to use it. But right this way, sir. I think I remember where it is."

As they left the barracks, Stephens glanced over at the other man. "Your men are amazing," he said. "That performance you all put on for us this morning... it was incredible. Simply incredible. I… if it's not too personal, Sergeant. How do you fellows _manage_? I'd go mad."

Forrest straightened his jacket. "We don't. We're not managing, sir. We're dying like flies. And we _do_ go mad. You've seen our Corporal Newkirk in action. Would you honestly call that man sane?"

Stephens winced. "I see."

"He's far from the only wire-happy fellow in camp. One of the more… colorful, possibly, but there are actually quite a few who are a great deal worse off, if in a less dramatic way. The role he was playing earlier? Very much drawn from real life. And the chronic malnutrition does no one any favors."

"I'll make some noise about that, never fear. I assume you chaps aren't receiving the food parcels to which you're entitled."

"No. However, I have no doubt that the Germans are most appreciative."

"Oh, quite. Damned thieves," Stephens said sourly. "And yet, you fellows are managing to survive. I take off my hat to you all, I really do. I wish I knew how you do it."

"I don't know, really," Forrest continued. "I'm no psychologist. I suppose… we can't save ourselves, sir. None of us can. That's… that's just something we all learn, our first few months. Usually the hard way, you understand? We can't save ourselves. So we do our damnedest to save one another. If there's a secret to surviving this place, it's that."

Through the open window wafted irritated voices. "…Bloody 'ell, Louie, leave off! It was nothing but a couple of flipping love taps, and I'm fine, see? No bruises, no breaks, no blood. So would you stop being such a ruddy old woman?"

"I will stop being an old woman when you stop being a stupid jackass! _Ah, ciel!_ What am I saying? You are always being a stupid jackass—"

Stephens shook his head. "I imagine that fellow does require a fair bit of saving."

"No. He won't have it," Forrest said heavily. "I'll grant you, Corporal LeBeau does his best. But there's not much I've been able to do for Newkirk but let him dash himself against brick walls as hard as he likes, then attempt to pick up the pieces afterwards. I tried, my first few months. After all, I'm barracks chief, by virtue of a set of stripes I'd had for all of five weeks before ending up in here; it was my _job_ to try. He was already six months in and madder than a March hare, but he _is_ one of ours, and one can't help liking the fellow."

"So I gathered," Stephens said. "Even the guard seemed concerned for him."

He smiled, not sorry to change the subject. "Oh, yes; Sergeant Schultz. Good man, that one. Granted, he doesn't quite seem to grasp the concept of enemy prisoners… or of war in general, come to that. But a good sort. Um. Sir…?"

"Yes, Sergeant?"

Suddenly he looked as young as he truly was. "I do appreciate you giving the men some hope, sir. Don't think otherwise. But… do you truly think you can do anything for us? I mean… really?"

Stephens met his eyes. "I do, Sergeant. I don't know how much. I don't know how fast. We have some leverage; we have some methods of influencing the Germans that are, shall we say, less than orthodox. But we can't simply issue orders or wave a wand. We need you lads to hold on a bit longer, what? For now, save each other as you've been doing; we'll save you all as soon as we can."

Forrest smiled sadly. "I do hope so, sir. I really do hope so."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

After the official end of the tour, the Red Cross men were escorted back to town and lodged in the local inn for the night. The two of them sat in the mediocre hotel restaurant that evening, toying with leathery sauerbraten and trying not to wonder what the prisoners were eating that night.

 _If_ they were eating that night.

"I don't know if I'm cut out for this," Rowland said, after a while. "I… I don't much like feeling this helpless."

"No one does," Stephens said. "Come to that, I can't imagine the boys we saw today much like _being_ helpless, either."

"None of the camps we've inspected have been good," Rowland said softly. "But this one…"

"I know," Stephens said, ripping a piece of pumpernickel into quarters. "That Kommandant was round the twist. We're going to have to tread very carefully, so as not to provoke him into retaliating against the men. With any luck we'll be able to get them some help by the end of the year."

"Do you think that will be soon enough?" Rowland asked.

"…No." Stephens examined the bit of bread in his hand from every angle, and finally put it down. Getting heavily to his feet, he crumpled his napkin and threw it on the table. "Look, Rowland, it's been a long, dreadful day and we're both done in. I'm heading back to my room; I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

The younger man nodded, his eyes firmly fixed upon his plate. Stephens suppressed a sigh, and left the room. He'd have liked to have been able to reassure the younger man, to tell him some bright, cheery fairy tale to the effect that they, as representatives of the Red Cross, dispensers of mercy and succor to the unfortunate, would be able to personally guarantee the safety of the downtrodden young men of the stalag. He'd have liked to have been able to reassure the prisoners of the same thing. He'd have liked to have been able to reassure himself.

 _We can't save ourselves. So we do our damnedest to save one another._ The words echoed in his head like a bugle call. He reached his room, peeled off his jacket, and sat down at the small desk to compose a report that his superiors at the Red Cross would never see.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

The general's adjutant opened the letter, and, almost immediately, dismissed it entirely. It wasn't the sort of official correspondence that he needed to do anything about, that was certain. The censors hadn't done much to it, at least partially because there was nothing in it that looked especially suspicious. Or, for that matter, even remotely interesting. His aged auntie was apparently quite concerned for her nephew's health in the coming winter, and had knitted him several pairs of socks and a woolly jumper that she was sending under separate cover. She was considering taking a walk round the park if the weather was fine that afternoon; her little pug had growled at the mailman, but she was certain that it wasn't the poor puppy's fault; the mailman was a tetchy sort, and had probably kicked him when she wasn't looking. And so on, and so forth, for two interminable pages, written small.

Rolling his eyes, the adjutant stuck it back in the envelope and put it with the rest of the mail. The old dear meant well, he was sure, and perhaps it would give the General a smile or two. God knew there was little enough else to smile about.

The General didn't smile, as it happened. He scanned the letter once, twice, effortlessly picking out the coded phrases. _Found possible location for proposed operation. Possible personnel already in place. Conditions bad; abuse concealed but present. Assistance required. Additional information to follow. Do not contact; agent currently under surveillance._

He nodded once, decisively. It was crazy… possibly even crazy enough to work. And, he thought, with a very small twinge at the utter callousness of it all, if it did not, in fact, work, the Allied forces would lose nothing that was not already in German hands and at German mercy.

As soon as Stephens was in a position where they could communicate more directly, they could get down to the serious business of trying to put the whole thing together. Locations were all very well, but personnel was going to be the far greater headache. Who could command a wildcat operation like the one they had proposed? They needed just the right mix of skills and personalities in the team, and just the right combination of genius and lunacy in the CO. Could they come up with a reason to recall Stephens from the blasted Red Cross tour? This was no time to be playing the visiting fireman; things could change at a moment's notice.

That was on November 30th, 1941. Within a week, _everything_ had changed.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: The attack on Pearl Harbor, needless to say, occurred on December the seventh. So, those of you who were wondering if the American members of the core team were ever going to show up... they're on their way. We know from canon that Hogan had worked with the RAF, so he might have already been on their short list to command the operation, but the other fellows will just have to trickle in as the fortunes of war allow.


	12. Chapter 12

He'd expected to be abused, and he was; the Germans called him names he didn't need to translate to understand, and knocked him around just enough to make it unmistakably clear that he was very much in their power. No more and no less than any other prisoner in the Dulag, which was actually somewhat comforting, in a bitter sort of way, but it was more than enough. It was humiliating—intended to be humiliating—and gritting his teeth and enduring it all with some measure of dignity took every ounce of self-control he'd ever learned.

Eventually, once the Krauts had evidently decided that they weren't going to get anything out of him and that there was no sense in continuing to try, he was loaded onto a truck with a handful of other battered, grim-faced prisoners, all headed… somewhere; he didn't want to think too hard about where that might be, or how much worse it could get. He sighed, looked down at his cuffed hands. Probably a lot worse.

He'd expected to be abused by the Germans. He'd been right. He'd also expected that the hard-earned stripes on his sleeve would earn him some measure of respect from his fellow soldiers. And when a tow-haired private shoved him away, half off the narrow bench they were sitting on, calling him names he understood far too well and which needed no translation, Sergeant James Kinchloe realized that he'd been wrong.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

It was February of 1942. The sun was doing its level best to shine, and the day, to give credit where such was due, was bright, but in terms of warmth, the sunshine was not making much headway against the bone-deep chill or the brisk wind.

Newkirk used a stick to lift a sock from the washtub and flicked it over the clothesline; there was no way he was going to dip his hands in that icy water. He pinned it in place. "Oi, Louie," he said sourly. "I think I've got it. We're going to let our long johns freeze bloody solid on the line, then use them as shovels to dig a tunnel, right?"

LeBeau was using another stick to vigorously stir the clothing in the soapy water. "I thought we could perhaps use the— _what did you call them?_ —the 'Jeannes longues' as mannequins. Let them freeze, dress them in our spare uniforms, and prop them up before the barracks at roll call."

"I like it. The screws can count them as many times as they please, while we stay tucked up inside. And it's not like me underwear's got ears, so listening to our beloved Kommandant's lovely speeches can't do it much 'arm."

"True," Richmond said, pinning a tee shirt to the line. "As the old saying goes, it's the liar's pants that catch fire; not the pants of the poor fellow forced to listen."

"I would almost be grateful if they did. It would at least be warm," groused LeBeau.

"Getting back to the subject of tunnels," Richmond said. "We're not going to get much further with the one we have unless we can find more material to brace the roof. We're scanting the props anyway; it's going to go from 'not especially safe' to 'actively dangerous' if we stretch them any further than we already are."

Newkirk grimaced. "Last thing we need's another cave-in," he agreed. "For that matter, another cave-in could be the last thing we _get_. But every scrap of wood we've been able to scrounge 'as been going straight into the stoves. I try to tell the lads that they 'ave to give up their firewood to brace a tunnel 'alf of them think is a fool's errand to begin with, they'll just laugh in me face. Or punch it."

LeBeau pretended to think about it. "A risk I'm willing to take, eh, Richmond?"

"You're all 'eart, mate. All 'eart." Newkirk looked up at the familiar rumble of a German truck approaching the gate. "Allo, allo, allo; looks like we've got company."

Abandoning the laundry, the three of them went for a closer look, standing casually in the lee of Barracks Six, which was closest to the gate.

"Perhaps the war's over, and they're here to surrender," Richmond said, with no particular hope. "The Yanks are in it now, after all."

"Looks like the Yanks are in _'ere_ , now," said Newkirk, as the Germans began offloading men in olive drab uniforms. "New lodgers, God 'elp them."

All three of them were silent for a moment, each remembering their own welcome to the camp. Richmond rallied first. "Well, I'll go find Forrest and the other barracks chiefs and let them know what's happening. They're the only Yanks in camp, so Lange will probably split them up so they can't spend too much time with one another."

"Probably won't be the only Yanks for long," Newkirk said quietly. Unconsciously, he wound his hands together, rubbing his wrists as if he could still feel the shackles chafing his skin. Which, as a matter of fact, he could. "Poor sods. And poor _us_. Until we can sort out which of them are all right and which are rats, there's no tunneling, no black marketing, no cooking in the barracks."

"And since they are from America, there is not likely to be anyone here who can vouch for any of them," LeBeau finished. "This will be a problem."

"Almost as if the Krauts aren't arranging things for our convenience," Richmond said. "For shame."

"I'm going to write a letter to the Times, I am," Newkirk said. "Right; you go find Forrest and give 'im the joyful news; I'm going to take a stroll to the Kommandantur and prop up the wall beneath the window. Maybe I'll 'ear something worth me while."

"Don't… well, be careful," Richmond said, acceding to the inevitable.

"Don't be careful?" He grinned.

"Don't get caught!"

"Cooler might be the warmest spot in camp right about now, but I'll try me best, mum," Newkirk said over his shoulder, starting across the compound in a studiedly casual amble.

Ten minutes later, he was regretting the impulse that had sent him over to eavesdrop; he had heard nothing more scintillating than one of Lange's stock speeches about the impossibility of escape and the superiority of Germans and the complete lack of mercy they would deserve and could expect if any of the camp rules were broken or bent by so much as an inch, blah blah blah, Heil Hitler, and so forth.

Two sergeants, a corporal, and two privates, if he was reading the rank insignia correctly. They were in a group, and, as the guard began herding them out the door, none were left behind for 'additional interrogation.' Not yet, at least. They'd all need to keep a close watch on their new roommates for a while, but that went without saying.

One of the sergeants was a stocky, dark-haired fellow with what looked like medical insignia on his fatigues. Newkirk spent a second hoping that, if any of the new prisoners did in fact turn out to be dirty, it wouldn't be _that_ one. They needed a medic.

As Schultz tucked his clipboard under his arm, Newkirk sidled up to the group. "Allo, gents," he said cheerfully. "Welcome to the very finest POW camp you could ever 'ope to escape from."

"Newkirk, this is no time for jokes," Schultz said as a few of the men half-smiled. "Do not listen to him, prisoners. There is no escaping Stalag 13."

"Quite right, Schultzie," Newkirk said. "Those gaping 'oles we keep finding in the barbed wire are probably just termite damage. Vicious things, German termites. Eat right through steel. That's why the wings of their planes fall off so easy."

One or two of the men stifled chuckles at that. "Newkirk! Do not say such things," Schultz scolded. "You are setting a very bad example."

"Who, me? Why, Sergeant, I 'ave nothing but the 'ighest respect for you Jerries and your creepy-crawlies," he said. "The way they salute with their little antennas brings a tear to me eye." He held his hands to his head like antennae, let one droop and snapped the other to attention. In a squeaky voice and a German accent, he chirped out, "Heil Hitler!"

Now all the men were doing their best not to laugh, and not succeeding very well. Schultz, who could sense his control of the situation slipping further and further away, took refuge in bluster. "Ah, Newkirk, you go too far! Always you go too far, and one day I will have to report you! You must not do things like that, especially not in front of the new prisoners!"

"Like what? Salute? Say that I respect you? You got it, Schultzie," Newkirk said readily. "I don't respect you buggering goons one bit. 'Appy now? Should I go tell the Kommandant that's what you told me to say?"

"Oooh, Newkirk," Schultz groaned. "You will get _me_ in trouble if you say things like that. Please, please do not talk that way… especially not to the Kommandant!"

"Yeah. That's the main difference between the Russian Front and the cooler, innit? One of them you've got 'alf a chance at coming back out alive. You've got a deal, Schultzie. I won't tell Lange."

"Thank you, Newkirk," Schultz said, vaguely aware that, somehow, the conversation had gone wrong… again… but figuring out precisely how would take more energy than he wanted to spare. "Newkirk, Sergeant—" Another peek at the clipboard. "Sergeant Kinchloe is in Barracks Two with you and your friends. Show him to his new home, ja?"

"Ja, ja. Be it ever so 'umble. And it is ever so 'umble, that's for sure. Which one of you blokes is Sergeant Kinchloe, then?"

"I am," said the one who wasn't a medic. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-skinned; he'd been one of the first to smile at Newkirk's antics, and the smile went all the way up to his eyes, which told him that at least the American hadn't had his spirit entirely broken. Good sign. He was watching Newkirk very carefully, though, looking as wary of the Englishman as he had of the Krauts. Not such a good sign.

"Right-o," Newkirk said and smiled. "Corporal Peter Newkirk, Esquire, at your service, Sergeant. If you'll just follow me this way, I'll show you to your room. Barracks Two is one of our better pigsties; lovely view of the delousing shed, and 'ot and cold running water. Well, almost; only when it's raining and it's only ever cold, but the sound of the drip from the ceiling to the buckets is marvelously soothing."

"Sounds delightful," Kinchloe said, playing along. "Is there maid service?"

"What kind of tupenny-'apenny outfit do you think we're running? Of course there is. Never seen 'er yet, but I'm assured that she'll be in to do up the place any decade now."

"I suppose she leaves mints on the pillow as well?"

"Ah, afraid you've got me there, lad. No pillows to leave the mints on."

Kinchloe stiffened. As a term of address, 'lad' was far too close to 'boy' for his tastes, and he wasn't in much of a mood to be talked down to— again— by a man he outranked. "I see," he said coldly. "Too bad."

Newkirk, taken slightly aback by his shift in tone, shrugged and changed his tack. "Anyhow, it's no worse than any of the other 'ellholes in camp, which isn't exactly saying all that much, but there it is. Everett transferred out to Barracks Six last week, so we'd need to do some rearranging anyhow. I think we can manage it so you won't 'ave to sleep on the floor."

Kinchloe wondered, his ears getting hot, if he was supposed to be grateful for the concession. He wasn't. "Okay," he said shortly, and stuffed his hands into his pockets where no one would see if they curled into fists.

"And… oh, damn it. Sorry, mate, but can I give you a bit of a warning for your own good?"

"Sure," Kinchloe said. "What did you want to tell me?"

"Well, some of the kriegies 'ere in camp… some of them don't 'ave any warm feelings about you fellows. And right now, you're the only one of your lot in the barracks. Now I don't doubt that there'll be more on the way, and eventually you might be able to transfer to be with your own, but you might want to tread a bit carefully, see?"

It rasped on his nerves like sandpaper. _You fellows? Be with your own?_ One punch. The skinny little twerp would never know what hit him, and surely he didn't need to be able to see out of _both_ eyes. Kinchloe forced his hand to relax. "I see," he said evenly.

"Yeah. Sorry, but best to be prepared, right? I mean, you'd think that they'd realize that the poor enlisted sods who end up in 'ere weren't the ones making the decision to 'ang around twiddling their thumbs while Europe took a pounding, but a lot of folks are just bloody stupid. There's some resentment there."

"I unders—wait, what? They resent who?"

Newkirk looked at him oddly. "Yanks. You 'ave to admit that you lot took your sweet time deciding that 'Itler needed a bit of a seeing-to. There are a few lads that took it a bit personally. Stick close to me and me mates, though; we'll see you right."

"Americans? You were talking about Americans? Saying that I'm the only American in the barracks? That some people here resent _Americans? That's_ what you meant by that?"

Now Newkirk just looked confused. "You _are_ a Yank, aren't you? Between the uniform and the accent I'd assumed as much…?"

Kinchloe felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Americans. Not black Americans. He could live with that. "Yes, I'm American," he said. "And no, I certainly wasn't consulted on military strategy."

"Didn't think so. Don't worry; they'll settle soon enough. And, I'm very sorry to say, there will probably be more of your lot rolling through the gates before the war's over; you lads just 'ad the rotten luck to be the first, which is why they split you up. They'd rather keep mates separated if they can."

"They're no 'mates' of mine," Kinchloe said. "Never saw any of them in my life before they dumped us on that truck."

"Well, like I said. Stick close to me set if you'd like; they're all good blokes. Me mate LeBeau's a Frenchie. Can't miss 'im; red beret, about so high, and a temper like bloody Mount Vesuvius. 'Is English is pretty good by this time. Rest of us in Two are all RAF."

"I speak French," Kinchloe said.

"That so? Louie will be glad of it. 'E's taught me the words, right enough, but 'e says that even in English, me accent is a crime, and listening to me try to talk French is a violation of the Geneva Convention."

Kinchloe laughed. "Well, I must say, old chap," he drawled in faux-Mayfair tones. "Your accent is not exactly BBC standard, what?"

"Ah, but if it was, that would be one less thing for the dear fellow to fuss about, and we can't have that, now can we, old man?" Newkirk shot back in the same tones. "He does so enjoy taking potshots at everything that isn't French, preferably Parisian."

"I'll remember that," Kinchloe said.

"Spend five minutes with 'im and you won't be able to forget it," Newkirk said, returning to his own voice. "I can't really give you much good news about winding up in this place. Food's bad and there's not much of it, it's bloody cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey ten months out of the year, and most of the Krauts are just itching for a chance to use those rifles of theirs. I'm sorry you're 'ere, Sergeant."

"Thanks," he said. "Thanks for the warning, and thanks for the sympathy, I guess. I… well, never mind the 'Sergeant' stuff. Call me Kinch."

Newkirk nodded. "Cheers, Kinch," he said, opening the door to the barracks. Catching his foot on the threshold as they entered, he stumbled into Kinchloe, who automatically steadied him. "Oops. Sorry about that, mate."

Forrest glanced at Newkirk, who nodded fractionally. _Clean._

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: And then there were three. Four if you count a cameo appearance by a certain medic who seems to have become a far more important character in fanon than he ever was on screen.

Kinch, historically, would have been in a segregated unit and likely would not really have ended up in Stalag 13. I don't know how to square that circle and I'm not going to try; he's here because he's here. I did want to get the specter of possible racism on the part of the other kriegies out of the way as quickly as possible. Probably unrealistic of me. I don't care. I like Kinch. I didn't want him to have to go through that, and I really didn't want to write it, either.


	13. Chapter 13

As before, dialogue in _italics_ is to be read as being French. Terrible accents are optional.

As regards the previous chapter, I want to make it clear that I in no way intended to downplay the difficulties faced by persons of color, either during the 40s or, I regret to say, nowadays. The show itself, apart from a couple of 'Do I _look_ German to you?' jokes, never, to my admittedly imperfect recollection, made an issue of race; Kinch was always treated simply as the intelligent, capable man he was, and I chose to follow suit. No disrespect was intended.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Two weeks later, Kinch was down in the tunnel with the rest of them, shifting dirt and chatting with the others as though he'd been in camp for a year rather than a fortnight. He'd been accepted as one of them, and let in on their less-than-regulation activities, in fairly short order; being genuinely likable had probably helped with that. Richmond had said, with a cheerful shrug, that the American might yet turn out to be a German spy, and as such, might get all of them shot, but at least they would have had a few weeks or months of pleasant conversations beforehand, which was not to be sneezed at. In a stalag, you learned to take what you could get.

The sleeping arrangements had been hammered out with no more than the usual amount of bargaining, complaining, and insult:

'Oh, no; you're not sticking me back with MacDonald; the tosser talks in his sleep! And he doesn't even say anything interesting!'

'Is that so? Well, I didn't like to say anything, but your morning breath is eating holes in the blanket. Someone swap with me! Anyone!'

'Far as I'm concerned, Newkirk's yours if you want him.'

'…I'll stick with the morning breath, thanks anyhow.'

'All right; Browning, you snore, and Hawkins, you grind your teeth. You two _deserve_ each other.'

…And so on, and so forth. It did all work out eventually, and nobody ended up on the floor, although the row that broke out when Foxton and O'Toole were discovered to have 'acquired' McGuire and Stewart's blanket sometime between lights out and bed check nearly had both of them sleeping outside in a snowbank. All just a part of the rich pageant that was life in Stalag 13.

OoOoOoOoOoO

 _For you, the war is over._ The words ran through his head like snake venom in a vein; just as insidious, just as deadly. The barbed wire around the Oflag might as well have been wrapped clear around his throat, and half the time he felt as though it was. _For you, the war is over._ It was an officer's duty to escape and return to his own forces, and he had every intention of doing just that the moment he had half a chance, but even without that little bit of legal justification, even if the blasted rulebook had said it was an officer's duty to acquiesce, fold his hands and politely wait for the war to end on its own, he'd still have been plotting escapes. The goddamned Krauts weren't going to keep _him_ down, no sir, they most certainly would not. _For you, the war is over._

Two words. _Like Hell!_ Colonel Robert E. Hogan, pilot, squadron commander, strategist, daredevil, ladies' man, lateral thinker, and— for the moment— POW, wasn't having any of that. He'd get himself out of this stinking pit, get back home, get back in the air, and get back to blasting Nazis out of the sky. He _would._ He had to. His war was _not_ over, and any Kraut who wanted to tell him otherwise could stick it where the sun never shone. Crosswise.

He glared at the fence one last time, and turned away. There really weren't any weak places that he could see, no spots where cutting the wire could go unnoticed. The searchlights were too well spaced, the guard towers too well manned. Tunneling had run into an obstacle; namely solid rock, so that was temporarily on hold while they tried to reroute. And trying to climb the fence would be suicide. So, if you couldn't go over, and you couldn't go under, and you couldn't go through…

He'd get out. _He'd get out_. One way or another, he'd get out. They couldn't hold him forever. Not him.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

It was so dark. And so close. The air was thick with dust, every part of him that could possibly hurt was hurting, and so was every part that _couldn't_ , just for good measure. What had happened? Where was he?

LeBeau groaned, sliding back into consciousness and not at all certain that he wanted to. _"What the hell happened? What's going on?"_

Newkirk coughed out a lungful of dirt. "I think… ooh, bloody 'ell. I think the flipping tunnel caved in," he said. "Richmond said we'd been scanting the props. Looks like 'e was right."

"Caved in…? We are trapped?" LeBeau gasped for breath. _"Buried alive? Oh, my God. We're going to die. We're going to die!"_

"LeBeau. Louie!" Newkirk couldn't really move; about the best he could do was to reach out and grab LeBeau's ankle. "Oi! Louie. Budge up. Look at me. Look _only_ at me, you 'ear? Breathe, mate. Breathe."

" _Trapped. We're trapped_ …" LeBeau was in no shape to listen to anything but his own pounding heart and the hiss of shifting dirt. He'd started to hyperventilate. " _My God. Oh, dear God in heaven, help me._ "

"Sorry, mate, 'E's busy. Told me to tell you to relax, trust your Uncle Peter, and you'll be out of 'ere in two shakes, all right? Louie, you listening?" He switched to French… more or less. " _Come closer. Over here. With me. Come here._ "

His own language reached him where English could not. Automatically, LeBeau obeyed, slithering closer to Newkirk. As soon as he was close enough, Newkirk grabbed his shoulders and held him steady. "That's right. _That's right. Be calm, Louis. Be calm now. Everything is fine."_

As LeBeau's breathing gradually steadied, he started noticing a bit more of his surroundings. " _Pierre? Are you all right?_ "

Newkirk was lying on his stomach, buried from the waist down. "Yeah. I mean, _yes, I'm fine,_ " he said soothingly, well aware that he was lying. His head was pounding like a full ack-ack battery and his hair was sticky with blood; he'd likely been clipped by a falling rock. Worse, he couldn't feel his legs, and there was simply no way that was a good sign. "Bit of digging to do over, is all. The lads will 'ave us out as soon as they can; all we've got to do is stay calm till they get 'ere. _We can be calm, no? We can wait."_

 _"You are buried! I will get you out._ "

" _No!_ " Newkirk caught himself, modulated his voice back to 'soothing'. " _Not yet, Louis_."

" _Are you crazy? Why not?_ "

 _Because I don't know how much air we've got in here, and the harder you work the faster we'll use it up. Because I don't know how stable the roof is. Because for all I know, I'm the only thing propping it up. Because I'm afraid that my back is broken and I want to put off finding out that I'm right for as long as I can._ What he said aloud was merely, "The others will be 'ere for us soon; they'll 'ave shovels and whatnot. Don't tire yourself out trying to dig with your bare 'ands."

"I am not tired. Let me help, _mon pote_. You cannot stay as you are. You are buried. You cannot stay buried. You… you… _you cannot be buried. We are not dead. Only the dead are buried. You must not stay buried!_ "

"Louie. Stop it, mate. Louie!" Newkirk grabbed his friend's shoulders again, shook him. "Louie, talk to me. I need you to tell me… tell me 'ow you make those fancy French foods, all right? Say I wanted to make that potato soup of yours. 'Ow'd I go about cooking that?"

"You wouldn't," LeBeau said automatically. "You would only cook something dreadful; boiled mutton or—what did you call it, Frog in the Well?"

"That's 'Toad in the 'ole,' and, for your information, it's ruddy delicious. Say I did want to cook some of your French grub, though. That potato soup, now. What's the first step?"

"Well, you would begin by peeling the potatoes, of course," LeBeau began. His breathing steadied as he went through the entire recipe, and somehow vichyssoise led naturally to quiche Lorraine and crepes Suzette.

('Blimey, LeBeau, do you Frenchies ever eat anything that isn't named after a bird?'

'Why should we? Why should **anyone**?'

'… All right, mate; you've got a point there.')

By the time the diggers broke through, LeBeau was only semi-conscious. Whether that was due to the claustrophobia or the fact that the air was getting very thin was debatable; both played a part.

"LeBeau! Are you all right? Where's—oh, dear God. Newkirk? Are you hurt?"

"Nothing to speak of, Forrest," he said. "Get LeBeau out of 'ere, will you?"

Forrest gave him a troubled look, then nodded. "All right," he said. "Hang in there a bit longer. Kinch went to get more braces. We'll have you out in no time."

"Yeah. Sure. Be careful," he said, and watched in silence as Forrest all but dragged LeBeau out of the semi-cleared tunnel.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

The Red Cross representative had toured the entire Oflag, making noncommittal but vaguely positive noises all the way, and had stopped for brief private discussions with as many of the men as he could. Hogan watched him with a jaundiced expression as he made his fussy way across the camp. He had no intention of trying to talk with the man; what was there to say, really? The camp was ever so slightly on the sunny side of the Geneva Convention, so the Red Cross could cluck their tongues and shake their heads as much as they liked; the Germans were in the clear. There was nothing the Protecting Powers could do for them, and a conversation that would boil down to 'Stiff upper lip; the war can't last forever,' was a conversation he could very much do without.

And, he thought, it would have been nice if the representative had thought the same. He apparently wanted to have heart-to-heart chats with everyone—Heaven forfend he miss a single detail—and he was making a beeline for Hogan, who was standing alone, leaning up against the water tower.

"Good day, sir," he said. "My name is Gerald Stephens."

"Colonel Robert Hogan," he said shortly. "You here to deliver my dry cleaning?"

Stephens blinked, then the corner of his mouth twitched. "Well, Colonel, I'm glad you've been able to keep your sense of humor in working condition."

"You know how it is in a POW camp; just a laugh a minute," Hogan drawled.

"I can just imagine," Stephens said. His eyes flicked left, right; no one was near. "Colonel Hogan," he said quietly. "I am not here solely as a representative of the Red Cross, and I came specifically to speak with you. Allied High Command has a… somewhat unorthodox proposition for you."

Hogan frowned. "If it involves getting me out of here, I don't care how unorthodox it is."

Stephens shook his head. "Out of this Oflag, yes. Out of German custody, no. If you agree, you will be transferred to a different camp for the duration." He sounded apologetic. "An enlisted men's camp."

"Are you out of your… What's your game, Stephens? Why in hell would I want that? What good would that do me?"

"This camp is too isolated; the LuftStalag we selected is more conveniently placed for what High Command has in mind."

"The first rule of real estate; location, location, location. Look, Stephens, cut to the chase, will you? And make it interesting. Why do you want me in with the other ranks?"

Stephens cleared his throat. "Intelligence," he said. "Sabotage. Espionage. Are you interested yet?"

"…Keep talking."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

His legs were starting to hurt very badly, which, he reminded himself sternly, was good news, at least so far as his apparently- _not_ -broken back was concerned. This way, when the rest of the tunnel gave up the ghost and he suffocated under a ton of dirt, he could die writhing in pain rather than paralyzed and numb. Always look on the bright side, after all. The sour joke actually wrung a wry chuckle out of him as he tried to wriggle free, but the first hint of disturbance brought on an ominous shower of dust from the roof, and it was no longer funny.

Eventually, Kinch appeared in the tunnel; he had a canteen slung around his neck and an entrenching tool in his belt. "Hey, Newkirk," he said easily. "Nice day for a tunnel collapse, eh?" He passed over the canteen.

Newkirk unscrewed the top, gulped down a mouthful of tepid water. It was, he thought, the most glorious drink he'd ever had. "Cheers, Kinch," he said when he could speak again, and handed it back.

"Any time. Well, now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way, let's get down to business. I'll have you out of there before you know it."

"No. Give me the shovel and I'll do it meself; you get back out with the others."

"Come on, Newkirk. It'll go a lot faster if I do it."

"Too right, it will go fast. The whole bloody roof's about to go, and probably take the barracks floor with it. This pile of dirt could well be the only thing keeping it up."

Kinch squinted at the tunnel walls. "You don't know that for sure."

"Mate, if any of us knew the first bloody damned thing about 'ow to dig tunnels for sure, I wouldn't be _in_ this mess, now would I?" Newkirk's voice had scaled up a half-step and his accent had thickened; the stress was becoming more and more noticeable. "I'm not risking you or any of the other lads on finding out exactly how rotten a job we did with this one. Give me the flipping shovel and get out!"

"Not a chance, pal," Kinch said. "Look, we've dismantled most of a bunk for the lumber, and we've put in new props wherever we could find a place to hammer them in. Even if this section does go, I'm pretty sure we can get to safer ground in time." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm not leaving you here. So, _Corporal,_ let's get started, okay?"

Of all the times to pull rank. He snorted. "You're 'round the bend, _Sergeant_ , did you know that?"

"And up the creek. Here goes nothing…"

"Kinch. Please don't make me the reason you get yourself killed. Please, mate. Don't do that to me."

Kinch said nothing for a moment. Then, his lips firming, he dug the shovel into the mound of dirt and tossed the first scoopful aside. "I could say the same thing to you, Newkirk. And so would LeBeau," he said. The shovel bit into the earth again; the ceiling released another shower of dust in apparent protest. He ignored it. "Or any of the others. It works both ways, or it doesn't work at all."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Anyhow, General, he seemed quite enthusiastic once I'd explained the general outline of what we had in mind. So we'd best get hold of our Teutonic friend and have him start arranging the transfer. Soonest begun, soonest done."

"You're that certain he's the right man for the job, then? You only spoke with the Colonel for, what, twenty minutes?"

"I spoke with him for twenty minutes, after spending twenty days rummaging service records, psych reports, eyewitness accounts, old girlfriends, and grammar school report cards. No, General, we've found our Goldilocks; I've no doubt about that."

"Goldilocks?"

"Sorry, sir; just my little joke. As we were going through all those endless lists of candidates, I would think to myself, 'This one is too rigid; this one is too foolhardy… And this one is _juuuuust_ right.' Goldilocks."

The general laughed. "Fair enough… and I think we've found our code name. Well done, Nimrod."

"Thank you, sir," said Stephens, and smiled. "I really am quite anxious to see how this all turns out."

"So am I," the general said. "So am I."


	14. Chapter 14

Fifteen tense minutes and a partial secondary collapse later, two spent, choking figures scrambled out of the tunnel. A dozen men, all talking at once, bustled around, helping the two of them to a seat, bringing more drinking water, brushing the dirt from their jackets, and generally making nuisances of themselves in the process of trying to be helpful.

"I'm okay," Kinch insisted for the third time. "Really, guys; I'm _fine_. Go fuss over Newkirk; he's the one who had the worst of it."

"Better yet. Leave Newkirk alone and let 'im catch 'is breath in peace," Newkirk rasped. "We're all right. But we've lost about twenty feet of the tunnel, I'd say, and good riddance. That thing is a bleeding deathtrap."

Foxton, one of the more dedicated, if less skillful, tunnelers, bristled. "Hey! Would you rather stay here for the rest of the war?"

Newkirk didn't miss a beat. "So what are you lot 'anging around goldbricking for? Let's get back to work, eh?"

"That's more like it," Richmond said with a grin. "Did you guys leave the shovel in there?"

"About ten feet in," Kinch said. "Seemed safer than trying to hide it here in the barracks, and that first section is braced well enough that it should be all right, even if there are some aftershocks at the far end."

"Good enough for me," Forrest said. "We're all knackered; tomorrow night will be soon enough to start repairing the part that caved in, for my money. How's LeBeau?"

"He's all right," said MacDonald, who had been elected the bunk medic on the entirely inadequate strength of a father who was a veterinarian. "Sounds like he just breathed in a lot of dirt, and then when the air went bad, it caught up with him. He's sleeping it off."

"Okay, good. Come over here; Newkirk's got a lump on his head the size of a goose egg."

MacDonald shrugged helplessly as he walked over to Newkirk's bunk. "What do you expect me to do? I'm really not a doctor, you know—"

"Hey!" Hawkins barked in a strangled voice, cutting him off. " _Where's Browning?_ "

Foxton looked around, his eyes widening. "Was he down—Oh, God! Quick! _Get the shovels!_ "

Everyone made for the tunnel entrance at once. "Newkirk, sit down; you're hurt and you'll only slow the rest of us," Forrest ordered. "Hawkins, Stewart; you two start off with the shovels. McGuire and I will spell you after ten minutes. Everyone else, bucket brigade with the dirt and I don't give a damn where you have to pile the stuff. We'll worry about hiding it _after_ he's safe. MacDonald, stay to the rear and be ready for us to bring him out. I know you're not a doctor, but you're all we've got. Newkirk, I said _sit the hell down_! Now move!"

They did.

Browning had been assisting with the rescue mission, and had been caught in that secondary collapse, providentially just where one of the sparse props had been located. So he was not buried, simply sealed inside what amounted to a tiny cavern. That was the good news. The bad news was that he had apparently taken a substantial knock to the head and was out cold, with a gash on his forehead that was almost certainly going to scar if he lived long enough for that to be a consideration, a pool of vomit beneath his cheek, and a bluish tint to his lips. They carried him to the barracks as carefully as they could.

Hawkins looked at his friend, and the naked anguish on his face was terrible to see. "He's hurt. He needs a real doctor," he said numbly. "He needs more help than we can give him here."

Forrest bit his lip, thinking hard. "Yes. The Yank who came in with you, Kinch; he was a medic, right?"

Kinch nodded. "Yes. A Sergeant… Wilson, I think? I don't know anything more about him than that."

"We'll have to risk it," Forrest said. "He's in Five, isn't he?"

"He needs a _doctor_ , damn it," Hawkins insisted. "We need to bring him to the infirmary! Now!"

"And say what? That he was hurt in a tunnel collapse?" Richmond's voice was harsh. "If we do, the best case scenario is that Krauts will patch him up enough to shoot him. And probably the rest of us as well."

Hawkins was not appeased. "What would you suggest, then? Let him die? Tell the Krauts he was _killed_ in a tunnel collapse?"

"We could say he fell out of his bunk and hit his head on the stove," Kinch suggested.

"They're not stupid enough to believe that," Forrest said. "We could say one of the guards beat him, maybe… no; they'd only deny it, and it would be obvious that we were hiding something. We could…" Desperately, he looked around the room, searching for inspiration. His gaze lit on Newkirk, and his still-bloodied face, and both of them knew what he was thinking.

"We could say 'e was fighting," Newkirk said flatly. "They'd believe that."

Forrest sighed. "Yes. I'm sorry. Fighting will get you punished…"

"But tunneling will get all of us shot. Or transferred like Dubois and 'is lot. I know. It's all right."

"No, it isn't," Forrest said bitterly.

"I can take it. Anyway, I'm about due; it's been nearly a month since the last time I got called up on the carpet. They probably miss me down in the cooler. MacDonald, how bad off is Louie? Does 'e need to see the doctor too? We could say I took a swing at 'im as well, I guess. May as well hang for a sheep as a lamb."

"No, he seems okay. I think he just needs to sleep it off. I guess you just beat up Browning," MacDonald said.

"Sure. Just Browning," Hawkins snarled. " _Your_ little friend is just fine, and the whole goddamned barracks turns out to save _your_ worthless skin, and Browning gets left behind to die. Nothing ever changes, does it?"

"Hawkins, pipe down!" Forrest snapped. "Nobody's been left behind, and nobody's _going_ to be. We're just wasting time, here. Somebody needs to carry Browning to the infirmary. At least two men, and carry him as gently as you can. If the Krauts ask any questions, and if we're lucky they won't, one of you needs to be ready to snitch."

Hawkins' lips curled back, exposing his teeth like a dog. "Need a grass? I'll do it with pleasure," he said. "I hope this time they _do_ hang you."

Newkirk, who by this point was the calmest man in the room, just looked at him for a moment. "Yeah. I know you do," he said quietly. "I know. So why don't you go shop me to the Krauts for fighting so we can get this poor sod off to the sawbones. Who knows? Maybe you'll strike it lucky." His voice dropped a tone or two, and it was suddenly leavened with something unidentifiable; anger, or contempt, or maybe simply pain. "And it _still_ won't change a damned thing. Now pick up your mate and _go_."

Hawkins went.

Newkirk sighed, aware that everyone was staring at him and, for once, not happy about being the center of attention. Some of the men looked embarrassed, some simply uncomfortable; a few, damn it all, looked pitying, which set his teeth on edge. But he was well past the point of being able to do anything about it. He just sat back down on a random bunk and tried not to look at LeBeau's too-still form.

Awkwardly, the rest of the men busied themselves with anything that came to mind. MacDonald returned to LeBeau and fussed over him ineffectually; Foxton and Richmond began clearing up the scattered dirt. Newkirk simply sat, head bowed, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

"What happened between you two?" Kinch asked, sitting down beside him. "That wasn't normal. What did you do to get him so angry?"

"Survived," Newkirk said shortly. He left it at that for a long moment, then relented. Kinch deserved more truth than that, and it was hardly a secret, anyway. "I was on the same crew as 'is younger brother. Jimmy 'Awkins. Our rear gunner, 'e was."

"He didn't make it out when you were shot down, huh?"

"Oh, 'e made it out just fine," Newkirk said. "Out of the plane, anyway. 'Is chute failed to deploy, and 'e went down like a ton of bricks."

"Dear God," Kinch muttered. Of all the nightmarish ways to die, that was surely near the top of the list. "You're… you're sure? Maybe—"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Couldn't be more sure. I _landed_ in 'im, mate." He laced his fingers together, studied them intently. "I 'ad bits of 'im smeared all down me flight suit. In me _hair_. Krauts found us before I'd quite finished tossing up everything I'd eaten that month, and that was that; the war was over for the both of us. 'Awkins just figures that the wrong fellow got the dodgy chute."

"That's hardly fair." Kinch wasn't blind, and Newkirk—exhausted, overwrought, hurting and scared— wasn't hiding the fact that he agreed with Hawkins' assessment nearly as well as he thought he was. The scene in the tunnel was starting to make a lot more sense to him.

"Eh, it's been a rough war for all of us. Jimmy was a good sort. I imagine 'Awkins was, too, before this place broke 'im. If 'ating my guts is what's keeping 'im going, better not to muck around with it. Sticks and stones, and all that. I don't much care what 'e thinks of me."

 _Sure you don't._ "Your crewmate. Jimmy. He was a good guy, huh?"

"That 'e was. Didn't 'ave a mean bone in 'im." Newkirk smiled. "Reminded me of a puppy, you know the sort? Friendly, playful, and kind of… kind of innocent. Always bright and chipper and enthusiastic enough to make you want to fetch 'im a thump 'round the earhole, but you never did because… well, because 'e was _Jimmy._ For some reason, that was enough to be going on with."

"Yeah, I know the type," Kinch said. He did, too. What a legacy for a man to leave behind, he thought. A hellishly ugly death, and a cripplingly ugly memory for the brothers—blood or otherwise—who still mourned him. It was a bitterly unfair epitaph for the man Newkirk was describing.

"Two years older than me, and about four inches taller, and 'e was _still_ the little brother we all tried to look out for, you know? Deserved a better end than he got. Ah, well," he said, abruptly returning to business. "Look, when LeBeau wakes up, tell 'im to keep a lid on it, all right? 'E can tell me what a bloody idiot I am after I get out; don't let 'im go starting any _real_ fights."

"I will," Kinch promised, as the door swung open.

OoOoOoOoOoO

There were four of them; three low-level grunts and a young captain, all in Gestapo uniforms, and they made the blood of every man in the camp run cold. Including the Kommandant.

"We are here for one of your prisoners, Herr Kommandant," said the captain, with just enough respect in his voice to appease a man who, after all, outranked him, and just enough disdain to make it obvious that he had no real obligation to do so, and would cease being courteous whenever he pleased.

"I see," said the Luftwaffe Kommandant, one Colonel Weiss, and cleared his throat. "I am, of course, always ready to assist the Gestapo. May I inquire why you wish to speak with the prisoner?"

"You may not," said the captain. "And I am not here to _speak_ with the prisoner; I am here to _take_ him. You have my written authorization to do so in your hand. It contains everything you need to know."

"Of course," said Weiss. "Your own facilities will be far more… convenient, I'm sure. When you are finished with him, I suppose—"

"When we are finished with him, he will no longer be your concern, Herr Kommandant," snapped the captain. "He is no longer your concern _now_ , for that matter. Fetch this Colonel Hogan at once."

"At once," he repeated inanely. He opened his office door, barked an order at his adjutant, and slammed the door shut again. "Why don't you take a seat while they locate the prisoner?"

The captain gave him the sort of look more usually reserved for things with too many legs found floating in the gravy. "Then you are not currently aware of your prisoners' whereabouts? You cannot account for their movements at all times?" He smiled, slow and nasty, and slapped his gloves into the palm of his hand. "I will have to make a note of your methods of prison administration for my superiors."

Weiss, true to his name, went the color of milk. "My prisoners are under close guard at all times. They are kept in the strictest—"

"Yes, yes, of course," the captain said dismissively. "Of course. I don't doubt your word in the slightest."

Weiss could recognize sarcasm when he heard it, but he did at least have the wit to understand that, when at the bottom of a deep, deep hole, the only viable course of action is to _stop digging_. He smiled tightly at the young captain, who was casually examining his fingernails, and picked up the transfer paperwork.

One of the grunts watched him narrowly as he reread the paper, scribbled his signature on the relevant lines, and pushed it back across the desk, just as someone knocked at the door to his office.

"Herein," he barked.

The door opened. "Herr Kommandant? I have the prisoner you requested," said the guard, holding Hogan firmly by the arm. What, precisely, he expected one unarmed man to do if left unrestrained was something of a mystery, Hogan thought bitterly. Was he supposed to singlehandedly wrest a weapon from one of the Gestapo goons, subdue the entire complement, and escape while they were still lying on the ground shaking their fists ineffectually? Steal a tank? Or maybe just flap his arms hard enough to fly over the wire; it was about as reasonable.

Gestapo. Great. Presumably this had something to do with that Red Cross twit and his grandiose plans; they must have captured him, made him talk. Or else he'd been a German plant all along, looking for possible troublemakers, and, like a fool, he, Hogan, had walked straight into his trap. Well, they wouldn't get anything out of him, he promised himself. Name, rank, serial number, and a hearty 'Go to Hell,' that was all.

The captain looked searchingly at Hogan for a moment, then picked up the transfer paperwork and stuffed it casually into his pocket. "Very good, Weiss," he said. "Now, I'm certain you have… duties to which you must attend; I won't take up any more of your valuable time."

"But Captain, I—"

"Take him," he snapped to one of his flunkies, ignoring Weiss entirely. "Good day, Herr Kommandant."

"But Captain…!"

"Have my staff car brought around," he ordered. " _I_ have duties to which I must attend, even if you do not."

"Yes, Captain," Weiss said, defeated.

Hogan let himself be marched out of the Kommandantur and into the compound with his head held high; he was holding on to what remained of his pride with his teeth and toenails, and being dragged into the car kicking and screaming wouldn't help anything. Or change anything, for that matter. A few other prisoners were watching; first one, then the rest saluted in a silent farewell.

"So long, fellows," he said gruffly. "See you in Berlin."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: No prizes for guessing why a certain young sergeant with a flair for explosives is going to strike a bit of a nerve with our favorite troublemaker once he shows up.


	15. Chapter 15

"So, Colonel Hogan," said the captain, in a heavily accented English. "It is a pleasure to finally meet a man about whom I have heard so much."

"Can't say the same, I'm afraid," Hogan said. "But don't take it personally. I don't have any Gestapo on my Christmas card list."

"Not yet, anyhow," the captain said. "Perhaps you will not send us Christmas cards, but I suspect that soon enough you will be giving us a great deal of information."

"Don't bet on it," Hogan growled.

"I will not," said the captain. "I make it a point never to bet on sure things. It takes all the fun out of it, you understand."

"Yeah, I've heard about the sort of 'fun' you bastards like. Well, you don't scare me, get it?" That, as it happened, was a lie, but he didn't think they needed to know that. "So you can take a running start and go straight to hell. You're not getting anything out of me!"

The Germans exchanged looks all around. Then they traded smirks. Finally, one of them—not the captain this time; one of the grunts—said, in a cool, precise voice with no trace of a German accent, "Colonel, I'm not at all certain we're talking about the same thing. Perhaps you simply don't understand your situation…?"

"I understand just fine," he snapped, then did a doubletake. " _You?"_

OoOoOoOoO

Lange was at the door, accompanied by Richter and Otto. The latter two had apparently been on night watch; they looked as tired as might have been expected from men who had been standing guard at three in the morning, but they were fully dressed and looked at least semi-alert. Lange was not so fortunate; he was wearing red plaid flannel pajamas beneath his uniform overcoat and his shiny jackboots were on the wrong feet, an error of judgment that was not likely to improve his temper.

"What has been going on in this barracks? It's well after lights out, or hadn't you noticed?"

"Well, we were all a bit worried about our friend Browning," Forrest said simply. "Please, sir; is he all right?"

"Ah, yes. Aircraftman Browning," Lange said. "Most mysterious, how he came to be injured in the middle of the night. When he should have been sleeping."

"Sir. It was an accident, sir," Newkirk said. "You see 'ow crowded we are. 'E fell off the bunk, is all. Must 'ave been dreaming."

"Oh. He fell off the bunk. I see, Corporal. Of course," he said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Well, that's what 'appened," he said with fairly unconvincing bravado. "Just an accident."

"A very convenient accident, it would seem," Lange said. "Do you know what I think?"

 _Blimey, you old buzzard. We're not even sure that you_ _ **can**_ _think_. "No, sir…?"

"I think that you're all hiding something. Something you don't want me to know about."

 _Your intellect continues to astound us all_. "I assure you, Herr Kommandant," Forrest said helplessly. "I assure you; nothing happened. We're not hiding anything. It was just an accident."

"I'd never heard that accidents were contagious, Sergeant," Lange snarled, stepping a bit closer to Newkirk. Roughly, he grabbed him by the jaw and turned his head, taking a closer look at the trickle of blood on his right temple. "Do you men think I'm _stupid?"_

"I went to see if 'e was all right. Tripped and knocked me 'ead on the stove in the dark," Newkirk said, heroically choking back the sudden rush of far more honest answers to Lange's question that were all but leaping off his tongue. Who said he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut when necessary? It was just that it so rarely seemed necessary…

"That," Lange said triumphantly, "Is not at all what your friend said happened."

"Browning did crack 'imself a good one," Newkirk said. "Can't really expect the poor bugger to remember too clear—"

" _Silence!"_ Lange bellowed. "This is your last chance. I am running out of patience. I want the truth, and I want it now!"

 _Well, Colonel, we all have things we want and aren't going to get. You can add it to the list. It's already the size of the Domesday Book; what's a few more?_ Newkirk cleared his throat. "Sir," he said slowly. "It really was an accident." It had the benefit of being true. They certainly hadn't intended the tunnel to go rogue on them.

"Very good," Lange said. "An accident. Perhaps I should cause some accidents of my own?" He untucked his riding crop from under his arm—why on earth did he have that in easy reach at three in the morning? Did he sleep with the blasted thing cuddled in his arms like a teddy bear?—and brought it down on the table with a vicious _crack_. "You are all lying. Are you hiding something? Protecting someone?" He brought the crop down on the table again. "It's quite useless, you know," he said pleasantly. "I already know exactly what happened."

The sharp sound roused LeBeau. Groggily, he opened his eyes. To his horror, Lange was there, brandishing that absurd riding crop and glaring at Newkirk. Saying that he already knew what they had been doing, and that there was no use in trying to hide their actions. No use in trying to protect the guilty. His mind reconstructed the events of the night as best he could. Tunnel. Collapse. Newkirk. Pain. Lange. Discovery. Punishment. _No. No! It's all happening again. I can't bear it, not again. Don't do this, please, God, I beg You. Not again! Not him! Not like this! Please! Don't leave me alone again!_

OoOoOoOoO

"What do you want from me?" Hogan growled. "Fine, you tricked me into volunteering for your little sabotage fantasy. I admit it. I'm a spy, or I would have been if I'd had half a chance. So just shoot me and get it over with."

Stephens smiled. "I'm not going to have you shot, Colonel. I've a few things of my own to admit, I suppose. I'm a spy, too. And so are my friends here." His smile faded. "We're not Gestapo, Colonel. On my honor; we're not. It was just an excuse to get you away from the camp."

The captain nodded. His German accent melted away, replaced by just the faintest hint of a Scots burr. "Stephens is telling you the truth, Colonel. You needed a chauffeur out of the Oflag, and it's rather an amazing thing, but when you're wearing one of these damned clown suits, nobody argues with you. Especially not over such a minor matter as a single prisoner."

One of the other rank-and-filers, in a New Orleans accent as thick and sweet as molasses, chimed in, "Nope, not Gestapo. Not German at all, come to that. We can even tell you who won the World Series, if you like."

Hogan blinked, then let the barest smile touch his lips as the adrenaline ebbed from his system. The slightly hysterical voice in the back of his head that had been running though a litany of _Gestapo torture death pain horror fear help no no no_ and other, similarly soothing, thoughts began to quiet. "No, that's all right, thanks anyway. I lost a bundle on that game; the Giants really let me down. So… now what happens?"

"Well, now you come to London with us for a couple of weeks while we brief you for your new assignment. Several gentlemen with security clearances much higher than mine have all sorts of interesting things to tell you. And it was the Dodgers who let their fans down, not the Giants," said the captain, with a quirked eyebrow to acknowledge Hogan's little gambit. "You should have known better than to bet against the Yankees, anyhow. Oh, by the way. How's your German?"

"It's… adequate, I suppose," Hogan said. He could get by, but hadn't put much more effort into the language than had seemed strictly necessary. His lips tightened. He'd known 'Kamarad,' in any case.

"That's another thing to take care of, then," Stephens said. "Intensive language lessons; you'll be speaking like a native inside a month."

"Great. Well, if I'm going to be dressing up in Gestapo glad rags, I guess it would be helpful if I sounded the part," Hogan said.

"Indeed," Stephens agreed. "In any case, once you're ready, it's back across the Channel, we put these uniforms on again, you get a strategic bruise or two as window dressing, Herr Kapitan Jamison, here, twirls his moustache and sneers in true Gestapo style, and we hand you over to the Kommandant of the stalag we've selected as your base of operations. After that, old chap, I'm rather afraid that you're on your own."

Hogan nodded. "I understand." He cleared his throat. "Thank you. Don't think I don't realize that you fellows risked your lives to get me out of there. Thank you for that, and thank you for giving me a chance to get back into the war."

"Good God, don't thank us, Colonel Hogan," said Stephens, who suddenly looked much older. "Getting you back in the war, as you put it… we've probably just signed your death warrant. Deep cover espionage in enemy territory? It's mad. Suicidally mad."

Hogan narrowed his eyes. "It's what you guys do, isn't it? Deep cover espionage?"

"Yes, it is," said 'Kapitan' Jamison quietly. "But then… _we're_ mad, too."

"This is anything but a safe line of work, Colonel," Stephens said. "A soldier may well be killed in battle; that's hardly a secret. But a spy... The monsters who truly wear these uniforms are masters of dragging death out inch by inch, and sooner or later, everyone breaks. If you are caught, Colonel Hogan, you _will_ be tortured, and you _will_ confess. You _will_ betray your co-conspirators, myself included, before they allow you to die. And even after the war is finally over, everything you've done, everything you've accomplished, everything you've suffered, will, in all probability, be hidden under a deep veil of secrecy. No recognition, no honors, no medals, no promotions, no gratitude."

"You don't get invited to many parties, do you?" Hogan turned a hand palm-up. "I didn't join the service because I expected honors or gratitude, and I sure as hell didn't agree to this cockamamie scheme of yours because I thought it sounded like the safe way to spend the war."

Jamison and Stephens exchanged glances. "We did want to give you one last chance to back out," Jamison said. "This operation is on a strictly volunteer basis, and we only want _informed_ volunteers."

"Well, then, this is your lucky day, because that's what you've got," Hogan said firmly. "Anything's better than seeing those Nazi bastards goose-stepping down Broadway."

"I rather suspect they'd march down the Temple Bar before they turned their full attention to the United States, but I do take your point," Stephens said, and he smiled again. Hogan realized that he'd just passed some sort of test. "You're down the rabbit hole now, Colonel. Welcome back to the fight."

OoOoOoOoO

"I know what you've done. Every last detail," Lange gloated. "Did you honestly think you could fool me with these cock and bull stories about accidents and dreams? We Germans are always one step ahead of you pitiful vermin. How stupid can you be, Englander? Are you so fond of the cooler?"

"No, sir," Newkirk said, lowering his head and letting his shoulders slump a bit. It was true. He was _used_ to it, but 'fond' was hardly the word he'd have chosen.

"Your friend Hawkins told me everything, Englander. Everything." He stuck the tip of his riding crop under Newkirk's chin, used it to force his head up. Newkirk glared at him.

"Well, so what if 'e did? I'm not sorry, and I'd do it again," he said. "Some things a man's just got to do, sir. And if that means the cooler, then I accept that, too. Sir." Also entirely true on all counts. Really, all things considered, he was barely lying to the Germans at all. It felt unnatural. He usually preferred lying to the Krauts just on general principles. God knew they didn't deserve the courtesy of truth.

Kinch shifted his position slightly. He was a fighter; he knew how to look imposing. Threatening. He was a good couple of inches taller than Newkirk. Usually that was all there was to it; he was taller. Now, though… now he loomed over him. "Sure," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Go hide in the cooler, you rotten Limey bastard. But you won't be there forever, and don't think we'll just forget the whole thing."

Newkirk's eyes widened in shock.

Lange looked at him, then over at the American. "Did you have something you wished to contribute to the discussion, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. Not really," Kinch said calmly. "But if Hawkins told you the truth about what happened here tonight, sir, I'm sure you understand why the rest of us would be a bit… upset."

"I suppose so," Lange said slowly, and looked back at Newkirk, who looked as though he was trying to stifle his apprehension with one hand and hang on to the remains of his dignity with the other. Without a great deal of apparent success on either count. "Corporal? Anything to say in your own defense?"

Newkirk's eyes flicked around the room like a cornered animal. He took a small but unmistakable step towards Lange. "No, sir. Nothing. Put me in the cooler if you 'ave to. I… I confess; what I did was wrong. I'm sorry, sir."

Kinch almost smiled. _Do anything you like to me, Herr Kommandant Fox, but please, please don't throw me in that briar patch!_ He blew out an exasperated breath. "I'll just bet you are," he growled.

LeBeau, aghast at the apparent betrayal, and still only about halfway back to the land of the living, which accounted for his being far slower on the uptake than usual, shot Kinch a furious scowl that should have taken a good five years off his life expectancy. " _Cochon! Salopard! How dare you_ —"

" _Ta gueule!_ " Kinch snapped, and promised himself that he'd apologize as soon as possible. "You'll get your chance. We'll settle this after he's _back_ , all right, Corporal? When Newkirk gets _back,_ we can handle this our own way _._ "

Forrest put a firm hand on LeBeau's shoulder and squeezed hard. "Right. Thirty days isn't so very long. Is it, Corporal."

Lange looked around. LeBeau's impassioned rage, Kinch's understated menace, Forrest's cold contempt. Newkirk's defensive uneasiness. "Well, well, Englander. Apparently your friend Hawkins left out a few details after all."

"Me _friend_ 'Awkins is about as reliable as—" Newkirk cut himself off. Nervously, he brushed a hand over his temple, smearing the blood a bit further along his cheekbone. "What I mean, sir, is maybe 'e, well… no disrespect intended, sir, but maybe—"

"Enough!" Lange's lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk. "We are all grown men, are we not? You men may be prisoners, but surely you can settle your own differences like civilized adults. Corporal Newkirk, you are confined to the barracks for thirty days; half rations, no privileges. The rest of you gentlemen… Sergeant Forrest, I trust you'll put an end to this distasteful little affair, will you not? You'll arbitrate any further discussions of the matter as befits your rank and position?"

Forrest saluted, his eyes gleaming. "Yes, sir. Consider the situation handled, sir."

Lange smiled like a wolf, tucked his riding crop back under his arm, and shoved a cowering Newkirk back towards the knot of grim, hostile prisoners. "Very good. Dismissed!"

As he swept out the door, accompanied by his faithful, if sleepy, shadows, the barracks went very quiet, then exploded into a flurry of back-slapping, stifled laughter, and naked relief. The tunnel was safe. The Germans hadn't even _looked_ for a tunnel. They weren't going to be shot. Newkirk was still in one piece. Unbelievably, impossibly, miraculously, they had gotten away with everything. _Everything!_

"Hey, Pete—correct me if I'm wrong, but did I just hear what I thought I heard? Did Lange just give us permission to whale the crap out of you?" Kinch asked. _Born and bred in a briar patch._

"Don't you get any ideas, mate. Maybe _'e_ did, but I sure didn't!" Newkirk said. "I'll just limp a bit at roll call tomorrow, which, truth be told, I rather think I'd've been doing anyway. But thanks for being so threatening; that sadistic Kraut bastard really loved the idea of getting you lot to do 'is dirty work for 'im. Strewth; I 'alf believed you meself. That's two I owe you, now."

"Forget it. Just let me win at poker once in a while; that's all I ask."

"I didn't say I owed you _that_ much," Newkirk said, grinning at him. He slung an arm around LeBeau's shoulders. "In fact, now that I come to think of it, if I _'ad_ ended up in the cooler, I'd've missed all that lovely digging we're going to 'ave to do just to get the tunnel back to where it was this morning. Suddenly, I'm not so sure I'm all that grateful, mate."

Richmond snorted. "Grateful or not, you're right about one thing; we've got a hell of a lot of digging to do, and if you're stuck in the barracks for the next month _anyway_ , it all works out quite nicely. Think of it this way—Lange all but ordered us to put you six feet underground. Do you really want to disappoint our beloved Kommandant?"

"Oh, perish the thought," Newkirk said, rolling his eyes. "Perish the bloody thought."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: The 'Brer Rabbit' folktales, including the one referenced here, have a tangled and somewhat fraught history. Anthropologically speaking, there doesn't seem to be much doubt that they were derived from ante-bellum African American sources, which were in turn derived from much older African myths involving trickster characters like Anansi the Spider. And culturally speaking, there's no doubt at all that they've been retold and reinterpreted in ways that are often… shall we say 'extremely problematic' and leave it at that? But literarily speaking, the stories themselves are absolutely delightful, and Brer Rabbit is one of the great tricksters of myth and legend. Enid Blyton, a British children's writer, published a version of some of the stories, blessedly sans dialect, in the early 30s. Peter would probably have been a bit too old for them, but perhaps he'd have read them to Mavis?

Note on language: LeBeau is calling Kinch a few names that are distinctly unfriendly. Kinch is replying with a version of 'shut up' that goes all the way through unfriendly and out the other side. Don't use it in polite company. In fact, don't use it in impolite company, either.


	16. Chapter 16

He wasn't six feet under; it was more like twelve or fifteen. Newkirk jabbed his shovel into the packed dirt and dumped it into the almost-full bucket, topping it off. Three others, also full, were ranged behind him. He sighed, flexed his sore shoulders, and picked them up, two in each hand, to bring them back to the mouth of the tunnel for disposal.

He was eight days into the thirty, and to say he was going more than a bit stir-crazy was understating the matter. It was unbearable in an entirely different way than the cooler was. In the cells, he was trapped in a very small room imagining what the rest of the camp was doing without him. In the barracks, he was trapped in a marginally larger room _watching_ the rest of the camp going on with their lives without him.

Mind you, just about anything was better than the cooler, and he wasn't ungrateful. Still, in the cells, he was trapped in a very small room; the doors were locked, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. In the barracks, he was trapped in a marginally larger room, fully aware that nothing was really keeping him there but words. He had to be his own locked door, and he hated it.

They weren't supposed to be inside during the day; it made the Krauts nervous. They weren't supposed to be lying about on their bunks goldbricking; it made the Krauts tetchy. Standing about talking made the Krauts suspicious, running across the compound made the Krauts cross, loitering near buildings made the Krauts annoyed, and wandering too close to the fences made them trigger-happy. There wasn't much a kriegie could do that _didn't_ irritate the Krauts; that was a given. But being in the barracks during the day was definitely one of the things they frowned upon.

So the others weren't there very much. He was alone in an echoingly empty room, and it was driving him 'round the bend. There had been an abortive attempt at loopholery, a few days back; he'd stood at the window, and LeBeau had stood on the porch, and they'd begun what was shaping up to be rather a good discussion of the artistic merits of the musical stylings of George Formby, keeping strictly to the letter of the law as regarded who was supposed to be where. Their circumvention of the rules had, sadly, drawn the attention of one of the guards right around the time that LeBeau was forcefully opining that the aforementioned Mr. Formby's ukulele would serve a far nobler purpose if used as firewood, a view with which Newkirk simply could not sympathize. The guard, no music-lover he, upon joining their little round-table discussion, ended the matter with an eloquent appeal to reason that sent LeBeau scurrying to join Forrest's halfhearted calisthenics session and Newkirk away from a firmly shuttered window, sporting a bruised jaw apiece.

It had been a discouraging sort of incident, and it had not been improved by the fact that Newkirk had found himself humming 'Bless 'Em All' for the next five hours. He was fond of Formby, and, for that matter, of 'Bless 'Em All,' but very few pieces of music, if any at all, are still enjoyable five hours on. LeBeau, much to his disgust, had found himself humming it as well, and he didn't think it was enjoyable for the first five minutes, let alone anything more than that.

Redigging the collapsed tunnel was grindingly hard, slow, dull work. It was unpleasant, and it was painful, and, given recent events, it was frightening, and it was exactly what he needed. It was better than staring at the walls or listening to his fingernails grow, and it was a great deal better than thinking about… a great many things that he didn't want to think about. Like Browning. After a day spent at hard labor, straining every muscle to the utmost in the cramped environs, he usually fell asleep as soon as his head hit the mattress, and if there were dreams, he never remembered them in the morning. Which was something else to be grateful for.

Dinnertime rolled around. With a sigh, he brushed himself off, scrambled back into the barracks, and stood by the door. Jager, right on schedule, opened it, and grudgingly handed over a small chunk of bread and a cup of lukewarm cabbage water.

"Allo, Jager," said Newkirk. "I'd almost forgotten I'd ordered room service."

"Silence, Englander," Jager grumbled. "I have better things to do than bring you food."

"I know, and I do appreciate you taking the trouble. It looks positively divine. What flavor of sawdust is the chef using today; pine or oak?"

Jager just scowled, and put his hand on his truncheon.

"Always a pleasure talking with you, sir," Newkirk said, and stepped back into the barracks before the guard could get any clever ideas. Jager slammed the door shut behind him as he left.

Newkirk sat down at the table and considered his options. He wasn't interested in eating his dinner, and the tepid dishwater in the mug wasn't making him change his mind about that. Intellectually, he recognized that, after eight days of hard work and short rations, the fact that he wasn't even feeling hungry anymore was a very bad sign, but he didn't have the energy or the inclination to worry about it. He dunked the bread in the soup, let it soak long enough to soften a bit, and ate the whole squashy lump in two bites. Then he tossed back the remainder of the broth, quickly enough that he didn't have to taste it. There. That was one more chore over with.

He got up, walked to the tunnel entrance, then changed his mind. No more digging. His back was aching, and he was too tired; someone else could pick up where he'd left off. He climbed up into his bunk and stretched out, just for a minute or two. Or five. Ten at the most. Then he was asleep.

The others rattled back into the barracks about an hour later. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," Richmond lilted, rapping hard on the uprights of the bunk.

"Wha… oh. Ugh. Right, right; I'm up," Newkirk muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. He landed on the floor nearly as gracefully as ever.

"Goldbricking again?" Kinch asked, a small smile taking the sting from the words.

"Twenty-four karat, mate," Newkirk said. "It's just about back to where we were before this whole mess began. Which, sad to say, means it's back to chipping away at rock-'ard dirt and tree roots and all that bloody rubbish, but there you are."

"Wait—you're serious? You got all the way back to where we were? By _yourself_?" Forrest investigated the sandbags they used to transport the dirt for disposal. They were full to bursting.

Newkirk shrugged. "It's really ruddy boring in 'ere."

"If it's any consolation, you missed very little by not being on the work detail," LeBeau said. "Pulling weeds is not much fun at the best of times, and having a Boche aiming a rifle at your back while you do it adds all sorts of excitement. All the _wrong_ sorts of excitement."

 _Worth it to be outside of the wire for a while,_ Newkirk managed not to say aloud. "I'll admit that does sound like the sort of party I'd rather not attend," he said instead.

"The Donner Party looked pretty good by comparison," Kinch said.

A barracks' worth of blank looks intersected on his skull. "Er… precisely who were the Donners?" Richmond asked diffidently.

Kinch chuckled. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was the only American in the group. And sometimes they went and forcefully reminded him of that fact. "A bunch of guys who should have picked a better caterer," he said easily.

"Speaking of which," Forrest said. "Foxton, it was your turn, wasn't it?"

"Right," Foxton said, and fumbled in his pocket. The men were taking it in turns to smuggle food into the barracks— seeing as how the tunnel belonged to all of them, Forrest had opined, it was hardly fair that the penalty for protecting it had fallen on a single head, and, given that fact, he thought that each man could easily afford to be generous for a single day out of the thirty.

No one had had the temerity to argue with anything so seemingly reasonable, but, so far, seven men had had their offerings surreptitiously pushed back into their hands and been told to keep quiet about it. And Foxton would have almost certainly been number eight if the door had not swung open just then.

Hawkins walked into the barracks. His face was stony, but the mutinous anger that radiated from him was almost visible. He kicked the door violently shut behind him.

"Hawkins? What's wrong?" Richmond said.

Hawkins didn't look up. "Browning's dead," he said flatly. "They told me when I went over to check in on him; he's dead. There wasn't anything they could… he didn't have a chance, the medics said. No chance at all. That rock, or whatever it was, did something to his brain. He just never woke up. And now he's dead." His message delivered, he climbed into the bunk that was now his alone, pulled the blanket over his head, and turned his face to the wall.

Forrest looked shattered. "Damn it," he mumbled. He glanced at Newkirk, and said it again.

OoOoOoOoO

The next morning, they were chivvied into the compound for roll call, as usual. They were not dismissed after they had been counted and tallied; that was not usual.

A few of the burlier guards, all carrying axes, sledgehammers, and other carpentry tools, converged on Barracks Two. Grim-faced Nazis carrying crowbars are among the world's least comforting sights.

The men were left to stand in the compound while a great deal of violently cacophonous work went on inside the hut. The sound of the guards smashing what was, for lack of a better word, at least for the time being, their home, wasn't exactly pleasant either. The thought of the guards destroying the comfortless beds and their meager possessions was heartbreaking enough; they had so little left to lose that even the scraps and pieces of what had been their lives were invaluable. But there was a deeper, more bloodchilling possibility, and there wasn't a man among them who wasn't trying not to think about it.

LeBeau flicked a glance at Newkirk. _Do you think they're looking for the tunnel? Or worse… do you think they already know about the tunnel?_ His poker face wasn't quite as good as it might have been. Dubois and his friends—and their fate—were suddenly there, a ghostly presence among them.

Newkirk met his glance, rolled his eyes ever-so-slightly. It was not hard to guess what LeBeau was thinking. _Sod's Law being what it is… yes, Louie, they probably are._ He was already counting the cost of another failed escape, and not liking the estimated totals in his head. Part of him was hoping that, if worst came to worst, he'd be able to shield his friends from the bitterest consequences. Another part of him was hoping that, if absolute worst came to worst, the Kommandant would not remember the conversation they had had after his _last_ attempt at shielding his friends from said consequences. Newkirk didn't scare easily. That conversation, and the Kommandant's matter-of-fact threats, had scared him.

They were left standing there for hours; finally, just before supper, Schultz, who had taken no active role in the carpentry, was given some sort of signal. "Achtung! Prisoners, you are dismissed! You may all return to the barracks."

They did so. Most of the barracks was just as they had left it, including, emphatically, the hidden entrance to the tunnel, but the far end of the room had been partitioned off. Several bunks had been removed, and replaced with a desk and chair, a crude wardrobe, and a few other bits and pieces.

"Someone's getting a private room?" LeBeau said.

"Sure looks that way," Newkirk said. "And all this time I've been getting meself tossed in the cooler when I wanted a bit of privacy."

"Privacy just got that much harder to come by," Forrest said, disgusted. "They removed four bunks to build this little bungalow. We're going to have to either triple up in the remaining beds or shift a few people back onto the floor."

"Bloody charming," Newkirk grumbled. "Just what we needed around 'ere. _Less_ space. The lads will be overjoyed."

Before anyone else could say anything, the door opened again. This time it was Schultz, looking as miserable as any of them. "Achtung," he said halfheartedly. "Corporal Newkirk? Where is Newkirk?"

"I'm 'ere, Schultzie," Newkirk said. He knew what was coming next.

Schultz sighed. "The Kommandant does not want _two_ prisoners killed. You will go to the cooler after all."

"Figured as much," Newkirk said, stone-faced. "For 'ow long?"

"I do not know. I do not ask questions. I do not want to ask questions. You should not ask questions, either," Schultz reproved. "There is a verrrrry important person coming to Stalag 13 soon. An _officer_. The Kommandant does not want there to be any trouble when he arrives, and always you make trouble. So. It is the cooler." His expression softened. "I am sorry, Englander. But it is not up to me."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "First I miss the work detail, now I'm not going get to meet some toffee-nosed officer. Must've been born under an unlucky star. Right, then. So long, mates," he said, almost breezily enough. "Guess I'll get some privacy after all."

Schultz opened the door again, started to lead Newkirk out, but he jerked away. "Wait, Schultzie. One more thing. Forrest? You'll be writing the letter to Browning's parents, right?" He swallowed. "Tell them I'm sorry, would you?"

Forest nodded, then shook his head—yes, he would be writing the condolence letter, no, Newkirk had nothing to apologize for—but finally he just said, simply, "I'll tell them."

The door slammed shut behind them, and the barracks was quiet for a moment. At which point LeBeau picked up a tin mug and threw it against the wall as hard as he could, muttering something in rapid, venomous French that no one, not even the most monolingual, really needed to have translated. His eyes blazing, he turned to Forrest. "I will dig now," he announced. "I will dig all night, every night, if I must, and we will have the tunnel ready whenever they let him out, _n'est-ce pas_? _These stupid, evil_ _Boche… it is they who killed Browning. It is they who are responsible for all of this. I don't care if that bastard Lange is trying to show off for the entire High Command; this is—"_

"Take it easy, Corporal!" Forrest barked. "We're all going to work on the tunnel, but we're going to do it _carefully_. No more bodge jobs. We'll do it right. And whoever this officer is, whatever he's up to… we'll manage him, too. But get ahold of yourself, man. Newkirk can take care of himself, and flying off the handle does no good at all!"

LeBeau snapped to attention, but his eyes still burned. "Yes, Sergeant," he said flatly. "But it's my shift; I will dig for a while. If I may."

"Go ahead," Forrest said. The Frenchman needed some way to vent his frustration, and chipping away at hard-packed dirt was as good a way as any, he supposed. He looked around the barracks. The men all looked miserable in their own ways. Hawkins was back in his bunk, presumably grieving. LeBeau was ready to explode, Richmond wasn't far behind, and Kinch looked openly worried. Browning was dead. Newkirk was effectively out of the picture for the foreseeable future. Some sort of brass was coming to the camp, for reasons he could only imagine. It was genuinely hard to see how things could possibly get worse.

Forrest thought that he would rather like to throw a few bits of dishware, himself.

OoOoOoOoOoO

A week later, a truck rolled in through the gates. Kinch happened to be nearby, and watched as a pair of black-uniformed thugs half-dragged a man out of it, and hustled him straight into the Kommandantur. The man was wearing a leather bomber jacket and a crush cap with a golden American eagle pinned proudly on the front, and despite the cuffs on his wrists and a truly impressive shiner, he looked far more in control of himself than a man in his position had any right to look.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: And… enter Hogan. He has his work cut out for him, the poor fellow; morale is at an all-time low, the men are suspicious, and the Germans are, too.

George Formby was a British actor/singer. He played the ukulele, (rather brilliantly, I might add,) and sang some of the most charmingly dirty songs you can imagine. He did in fact do a cover of 'Bless 'Em All' during WWII, (as did pretty much everyone else in show biz at the time, far as I can tell,) but the song actually comes from WWI, if not earlier. The song is about various delightful aspects of military life, including the noncoms, bless 'em all. When sung by soldiers, as opposed to performers who had to worry about obscenity laws, the word 'Bless' was replaced by a slightly more honest choice of verb.


	17. Chapter 17

The new man glanced around the compound. There were patches of snow on the ground, the buildings looked about ready to collapse if looked at cross-eyed, and the wire fence looked like the personification of despair. Men were milling around in a desultory fashion. Some of them looked dead. Others just looked as though they wished they were. The Oflag had been bad. This was worse.

The induction lecture he'd gotten from his new Kommandant had been fairly similar to the one he'd heard from his previous one. Nazis good, Allies bad, toe the line or play the price, abandon all hope, ye who enter here, heil Hitler. For that matter, the Kommandant himself was fairly similar to the one he'd met at the Oflag, as though the Krauts had rolled them out from the same cookie cutter, in bulk. Perhaps Lange was a bit more intelligent than Weiss had been, perhaps a bit crueler, but the arrogance, the sour self-satisfaction had been very familiar. It set his teeth on edge just as much as it had the first time.

The men, it seemed, were studiously avoiding his eye, casually turning away if he chanced to look in their direction, under the guise of adjusting a jacket or lighting a cigarette; it was not encouraging. Jamison had insisted that, according to Stephens, the men imprisoned here were clever, well-disciplined potential operatives. Going strictly by surface impressions, he was beginning to suspect that he'd been sent to the wrong place. Perhaps Stephens had meant to say Stalag 14.

"Not exactly the welcome I'd hoped for," Hogan said aloud, and tugged his jacket a bit tighter. Even the eagles on his collar were shivering in the cold. A passing sergeant happened to hear him, and chuckled.

"All due respect, Colonel, but what exactly were you expecting?" the man snorted. "We're a bit short on ticker tape at the moment."

"Ticker tape I could forgo," Hogan replied. "But some basic indications of life would have been nice. This place looks like a graveyard."

"It pretty much is," he said, with no humor in his voice. "Trust a medic on that one. It doesn't help that we just had a death."

"Damn. What happened?"

"Head injury," he said brusquely. "He was in a coma for a few days; didn't make it."

Hogan nodded. He knew medics; the good ones always seemed to take it personally if they lost a patient, but this one was downright furious. It must have been bad. "I'm sorry to hear that, Sergeant…?"

"Wilson," the medic said, and saluted briefly.

"Nice to meet you, Wilson," Hogan said, returning the salute, and took a chance. "Speaking of trusting a medic. I'm sure that everyone knows by now that I'm going to be the senior POW around this joint, at least until they get their mitts on a general. Can I ask you to give me a few insights on my new command?"

Wilson blinked. "Er… all right. This place is hell on earth. What else did you want to know, sir?"

"That's a good overview, but I was kind of hoping for details," Hogan said briskly. "What's the situation here? What are the men like?"

"Mixed bag," Wilson began. "Brits, Canadians, Australians, Free French, a couple of Russians. Americans are starting to trickle in, slow but steady. All enlisted, so you're already sticking out like a sore thumb, _Colonel_. We're on starvation rations, there's nothing to burn in the stoves most of the time, and Red Cross packages are a fairy tale. Basically, sir, conditions are grim and morale's pretty much in the toilet."

"Any escapes?"

"Depends on how you mean it. Lots of guys have tried, all unsuccessfully. None since I've been here, so this is all secondhand, but from what I've heard, most of them never made it more than ten feet past the wire. Hell, most of them never made it as _far_ as the wire. Of the ones that did, a couple were killed in the attempt, and the rest were all tracked down and returned within a day or so. What happened after that depended on how angry the Kommandant was that particular day. The lucky ones just spent some quality time in the cooler. At least three were put up against the wall and shot, some were sent to other camps, and one was tied to the flagpole and whipped half to death at morning roll call. Presumably as a salutary lesson to the rest of us."

Hogan winced. "Geneva Convention honored more in the breach than the observance, I take it. Great." He fussed with his cap for a moment. "So morale's a problem. How about loyalty? Is there anyone you'd trust to keep their mouth shut, or would they all sell their grandmothers for an extra slice of bread?"

"A few would, maybe," Wilson conceded. "Mostly good men, though. Seems there's never been an escape attempt that failed because of a snitch. Bad planning, yeah, bad execution, for sure, or bad luck, in spades, but no rats, at least not so far as I'm aware."

"Well, that's a big step in the right direction. This sort of operation is going to need some pretty specialized skills, but it's also going to depend on trust. "

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "Operation? Either you're planning to muscle in on my turf, sir, or you're thinking of something a bit more involved than a simple break-out…?

Hogan smiled, his heart in his throat. He already knew he liked the brusque medic, that his instincts were telling him that this was a man who cared enough about the sanctity of life that he could be trusted. But gut instincts were only that. "And if I am?"

"God knows I'm all in favor of anything that gives the damned Krauts some trouble," Wilson said slowly. "And I know a lot of other guys feel the same. But I don't know how much of a chance… you're probably wasting your time."

"Time's all I've got until the war's over, it would seem," Hogan said cheerfully. "You said 'a lot of other guys.' Anyone you'd recommend I approach? You know the men; I don't."

"Huh." Wilson shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, thinking hard. "Well, I don't know them, not really. I've only been in for a month or so myself, and around here, trust is something that has to be earned. Being a medic has opened a few doors, because it's me or nothing, but I'm hardly in a position to give you much in the way of biographical information."

"That's fair," Hogan conceded. "Do you have any suggestions as to who I should ask, then?"

"You might want to start with the barracks chiefs," Wilson said. "You're the senior POW now; it would be perfectly natural for you to want to get a handle on who's who. Nothing suspicious in asking the guys who are _supposed_ to know that kind of thing; the Krauts shouldn't get too antsy about it. And neither should the kriegies."

"Well, naturally," Hogan said. "Of course I'll be doing that. But I meant, do you have any suggestions as to where I should start? Are there any barracks that strike you as interesting?"

"Oh. Well… try Two. Details are more than a bit sketchy, but apparently they were the instigators of some sort of campwide plot a few months before I got here. Good, bad, or indifferent, I don't know, but the fact that they got everyone else to fall in line says something in and of itself."

Hogan looked pleased. "That's a break. I was assigned quarters there, so a little glad-handing and nosiness will be expected."

"Kinch lives there. Nice fellow; we came in on the same transport, so he probably doesn't have much more in the way of details than I do about what happened back then, but he's a smart guy, keeps his head in a crisis, and everyone likes him. Kinch could probably—er, sorry. That's Sergeant Kinchloe. He's an American, too. Radioman, and a damned good one, from what I've heard."

"Kinchloe. Okay, point him out to me when you can, and we'll see."

"You can't miss him. He's a big guy. I think he boxed or wrestled or something nerve-wracking like that, and I sure as hell wouldn't have liked to face him in the ring. Oh, and one other thing. He's black. That a problem?"

Hogan looked at him, disbelief in every line. "I want men who are smart, brave, loyal, and able to think on their feet. I want them to take risks no one should ever have to face and manage the impossible every day before breakfast, and I want them to do it all from the worst place in the world. Voluntarily. I'm hunting for unicorns, Sergeant, and I know it. You think I care about _color_?"

Wilson relaxed. "Had to ask, sir. You'd be surprised how goddamned stupid some of the other men could get on the subject. Glad you're not going to be one of them."

"You don't much believe in beating around the bush, do you?"

"I'm a medic, Colonel," Wilson said with a half-smile. "I don't have the time or the temperament for playing games. Besides, I was a doctor until I lost my patience."

Hogan chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind. I appreciate honesty, Sergeant. I'll probably have a few more questions for you along the way."

"If I can be of any help, I'm happy to. Just… whatever it is you've got in mind, try not to send too much business my way, will you?"

"I'll try," Hogan said, serious again.

Wilson nodded his thanks, and watched as the colonel strode purposefully towards Barracks Two.

As he walked away, he hoped that Hogan would be able to keep that promise. Hogan hoped so, too.

OoOoOoOoO

Barracks Two was just as bad as Hogan had expected, maybe even a bit more so. Rickety bunks with paper-thin mattresses were crammed in most of the available space, and if the roof wasn't currently leaking, it was only because it wasn't raining. It smelled of musty straw, unwashed bodies, and sawdust, the latter apparently an artifact of the renovation of the newly designated officers' quarters, to which he had been politely escorted by the barracks chief. What was his name, again? Woods? No, no—Forrest, that was it. So far, the young sergeant was as stiff and polite as a new-minted cadet on parade; Hogan only hoped that there would, eventually, prove to be a human being inside the well-hidden wariness and British reserve.

"How many men are in this barracks?" There. That was a nice, neutral question that could not possibly be construed as a criticism or otherwise make the man nervous.

"Counting you, sir? Thirty-thr… I mean, thirty-two, sir," Forrest said, momentary sadness flickering across his face. "Well, thirty-one, at the moment. We have a man in the cooler."

Hogan blinked. "Thirty-two? You mean you're trying to fit more than thirty men into this miserable excuse for a doghouse? What the hell have you been doing? Sleeping in shifts?"

"We've been doubling or tripling up since the beginning, sir," Forrest said. "Some of the men sleep on the floor, especially in the warmer weather; we're still trying to hash out a new arrangement."

"I take it that setting up my little bachelor pad threw a spanner or two into the works?"

 _You're damned right it did._ "Nothing we can't handle, sir," Forrest said. "These are good men; they're no strangers to making the best of our situation here."

"I'm sure of it," Hogan said. "I'm looking forward to meeting them all."

Forrest, momentarily forgetting to whom he was speaking, snarked, "Well, sir, the way the war is going, you'll certainly have enough time to do so—" His eyes widened. "I'm sorry, sir—no disrespect intended, of course. I just meant… I meant…"

"You meant that, the way the war is going, I'll have plenty of time to get to know you fellows," Hogan said, smiling. "You're probably right."

Forrest let out a relieved breath. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Which isn't to say that these overcrowded conditions are in any way acceptable," Hogan continued smoothly. "I'll have to have a little chat with the Kommandant about that."

If Hogan had said that he was intending to go dancing with the Fuhrer, Forrest could not have looked more nonplussed. "Sir? Are you sure… that is, do you mean… beg pardon, sir, I just meant that Colonel Lange… he's not usually interested in hearing from the prisoners…?"

 _In other words, Sergeant, you want to know if I'm stupid, masochistic, or just plain crazy._ "As the senior POW, I have a responsibility to see to it that the men are treated according to the Geneva Convention. So far as I can tell, you're _not_. If Colonel Lange doesn't shape up and start to abide by the laws of civilized warfare, I'll make a protest to the International Red Cross and the Protecting Powers."

Forrest's lips tightened. The International Red Cross had already let him down once, and he didn't have much hope that a second sally would turn out any differently. And did this gormless Yank honestly think that Lange was going to simply fall in line after a gentle reminder that abusing prisoners was generally considered impolite? "I appreciate that you want to improve the conditions here, sir," he said, finally. "But, Colonel… the Kommandant… oh, blast it, sir. No disrespect intended, sir, but he will not take kindly to being corrected. He's likely to punish you for speaking out of turn, and then punish the rest of us, sir, just to prove to you that he can. The Geneva Convention doesn't matter to Nazis. And they've made damn sure we know that, somehow, it doesn't apply to us."

Hogan pushed back his cap, and gave Forrest a slow, piercing look. The young airman stood his ground. Forrest, as a man, a noncom, and a seasoned prisoner, considered that he owed Hogan—as a man, a superior officer, and a newcomer—a fair warning before he took it into his head to play football with a hornet's nest, especially given that he seemed to be doing so from sheer altruism. Hogan was a grown man and an officer; he had the right to put his own neck (and, for that matter, theirs,) into whatever noose he chose, but Forrest considered it only decent to make certain that, if he did, it would not be out of ignorance. And he prayed that Hogan would either listen to reason or, at least, refrain from dragging the others down with him.

"Well, Forrest," Hogan said, a miniature eon or two later. Yes. Stephens had been right to send him here. These were men he could work with. "That's just it. Whoever told you that… he was wrong. The Krauts can't just get away with the garbage they're pulling. That's what I'm here for. And if Lange can't be made to see reason, well, we'll just have to get rid of him, that's all."

Forrest's mouth dropped open, just the tiniest bit. He shut it with a snap, completely and entirely at a loss for words. The Yank was utterly insane. Had to be. And yet… it took him a moment to recognize that he was feeling the beginnings of hope.

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Wilson's wisecrack, 'I was a doctor until I lost my patience,' is an old joke borrowed from my grandfather, who was, in fact, a WWII veteran. It is not intended to imply that Wilson was actually a qualified doctor.


	18. Chapter 18

Hogan, somewhere between impressed and appalled, watched as the men fitted themselves into the bunks in twos and threes, with no fuss and no arguments. The bunk nearest the door, he noticed, had both the largest and the smallest men sharing the blanket. Presumably, he thought, they averaged themselves out.

Going by Wilson's description, he guessed that the tall man was the aforementioned Sergeant Kinchloe. The smart, levelheaded one that everyone liked. He'd have to find out for himself how much of that was true, but Wilson was certainly right about one thing. Hogan wouldn't have liked to face him in the ring, either. Hard treatment and short rations hadn't yet managed to erode his physique, and, if the kind eyes and faint smile were any indication, they hadn't broken his spirit, either. He had no idea who the small Frenchman was, but that could wait for the morning.

No one said a word as they got themselves ready for bed. Hogan knew that his presence was to blame for at least part of that diffidence—he reeked of 'officer,' for one thing, he'd been responsible for blowing their sleeping arrangements clear to hell, for another, and, of course, as a newcomer, there was always the chance that he was a spy or a snitch. Tactfully, he retreated into his own room, closing the door firmly behind him, and, for lack of anything better to do, crawled into the sack, feeling slightly guilty as he sprawled across the full surface of the horrible mattress. He'd have to do something about the overcrowding. ASAP. This was unconscionable. There had to be something in the Geneva Convention about not forcing the men to spoon. Hadn't there? And if there wasn't, maybe Lange could be snowed into thinking that there was.

He made lists in his head as he lay there. First, he'd have to sort out the men. Find out who was who and what was what; who would be useful, who was dead weight, who was trustworthy, who wasn't. Who needed to be quietly shuffled elsewhere, and who could be persuaded to stay here in hell. Who might balk, who might betray, who might break. Written personnel files would be nice. If he could get enough paper. _Could_ he get enough paper?

So much to do. First of all, they'd need tunnels. There had to be at least one, and preferably several, ways in and out of camp. Tunnels meant digging, which meant organizing tools and work shifts and dirt disposal. He'd studied diagrams of proper tunnel construction, back in London, but it was a long ways between sketches on paper and actual, secure, properly constructed tunnels. Might there be a miner in the camp? Or— might as well wish for the moon, while he was at it— an engineer? And if there wasn't, could he have one imported? Somewhere, among the captured soldiers of at least six separate countries, there had to be at least one man who knew something about the art and science of excavation. Had to be. Right? Finding him, whoever he was, had to be his first priority.

Lange sounded like a real beaut. He had to go. They couldn't hope to get anything done with a vulture like that breathing down their necks. That was also first on the priority list. Everything on the list, so far, was something that needed to be done first. What had he gotten himself into?

He fell asleep before he'd finished panicking and second-guessing himself, which was probably better for all concerned.

OoOoOoOoO

"Raus, raus!" shouted the guard, barging into the barracks. LeBeau, sound asleep, had his arm draped over the edge of the bunk, dangling free. It was too much temptation for the guard, who grabbed his wrist and yanked hard, plunging LeBeau clear off the bunk and to the floor. "Raus, cockroach! Roll call! Five minutes!"

LeBeau sat up on the ground, rubbing his sore shoulder with a scowl. If looks could kill, the guard would have been immolated on the spot, but the goon only smirked, and kicked the door open, letting in a gust of night-chilled air.

Hogan heard the commotion. Hurriedly tugging his jacket on over his untucked shirt, he strode into the room. "What's going on?"

"Sergeant Richter delivered our wake-up call," Kinch explained, shoving his feet into his boots.

" _Ouais,_ " LeBeau grumbled, retrieving his sweater. " _And used me as the alarm clock. Filthy pig._ "

" _Like they say. Time flies,"_ Kinch said, with a small smile.

 _"Very funny. Tomorrow_ _ **you**_ _can sleep on the outside. See how you like it."_

Hogan's French was adequate if not elegant; he understood the corporal well enough. He made the snap decision not to advertise that fact, at least not yet, although he did wonder, in the back of his mind, how many others, besides, evidently, Kinchloe, were also bi-lingual. Or tri-lingual; French was nice, but German would be essential. "Are you all right, Corporal…?"

"LeBeau, _mon colonel,_ " he said politely. "Corporal Louis LeBeau. _Oui,_ I am fine. Thank you."

"That was quite an entrance. Do the guards pull that kind of crap often?"

"Often enough," LeBeau said, shrugging it off. "They think it is funny to be cruel."

"I've always suspected that they don't like waking up at the crack of dawn for roll call, either," Richmond chimed in. "So they try to spread the misery as far as they can."

"I notice that it does not spread all the way to the corner where you are sleeping," LeBeau grumbled.

"Don't blame _me_ ," Richmond said. "Newkirk's the one who insists on that bunk… and you're the one who goes along with it."

"Newkirk? Is that your name?" Hogan asked the tall American, knowing full well that it wouldn't be. But it would be far friendlier to _ask_.

He smiled. "No, sir; I'm Sergeant James Kinchloe. Everyone calls me Kinch for short."

"Nice to meet you. Who's Newkirk?"

"None of us, _mon colonel_ ," LeBeau explained grimly. "He is—"

"Raus! Raus, everybody out! Roll call! Schnell!"

 _Their timing is exquisite. For Pete's sake._ "All right, Sergeant, we're coming," Hogan said.

The Germans counted the men, then counted them a second time just to be certain, and then spent some time sneering at the state of their ragged uniforms, contrasting them—unfavorably—with their own pristine jackets and shiny buttons, and speculating on the possible reasons that Allied soldiers might have for dressing like vagabonds and living in filth. None of the reasons were especially complimentary, and, it need hardly be said, the Germans inexplicably failed to consider the fact that laundry soap was a rarity in the camp and that sewing kits were classified as weapons and confiscated, lest the prisoners attempt to tailor civilian clothes in which to escape.

The men were too wise, or possibly just too tired, to be goaded, and they stared straight ahead throughout, waiting it out in furious silence, but when they were finally allowed back into the barracks, it was evident that the guards' little comedy routine had not improved anyone's mood.

Forrest glanced at his watch. "Er, Colonel Hogan? We'll be heading over to breakfast in about five minutes. Did you want to eat with us, or, well, I don't think there's an officer's mess…"

"I _had_ thought of ordering room service," Hogan said, with an I'm-just-kidding smile. "But maybe another time. Lead the way; I'm so hungry I could eat my hat."

"You'd be better off if you did," Kinch said. "The hat might have some nutritional value. Possibly even some flavor."

"Don't worry about being hungry, though," Richmond said. "One bite of gruel and you'll never want to eat again."

"One bite of that gruel and he will not want to _live_ ," LeBeau corrected. "It is swill."

" _Two_ bites of the gruel, and he might not live," Richmond shot back.

"That good, huh?" Hogan shook his head. "One more thing for the to-do list. 'Improve the rations.' Waffles and syrup are probably not going to happen, but we've got to be able to do better than suicide cereal."

Nobody laughed; they weren't quite sure yet if their new officer was being deliberately humorous or simply naïve. LeBeau just nodded, obviously skeptical but trying not to show it, and he fell into his place in line without another word. Hogan didn't press the matter, just waited until all the men were in line and followed them to the mess hall. He was, somehow, completely unsurprised to find that the men had not been exaggerating; the thin gruel looked and tasted like rancid wallpaper paste. He was even less surprised to see that every man wolfed it down anyway, polishing the bowls clean with their bread.

Yes. Improving the rations had just become yet another first priority.

A week later, he had 'acquired' a small notebook, which he was rapidly filling with terse biographical sketches on each man in camp. Mostly, of course, they were ordinary men doing their best in difficult circumstances. There were several he was determined to see the backs of as soon as possible, a couple who seemed to have some potential, and some he couldn't seem to get a handle on, just yet.

Several of the latter, as it happened, were quite close to hand. Something was casting a pall over the men in Barracks Two; he wasn't sure if his own presence, or possibly just that of his eagles, was to blame for the stilted, tense atmosphere, or if there was something more going on beneath the surface.

OoOoOoOoO

LeBeau glared into his bowl. "This is revolting," he muttered.

"You say that every morning," Richmond commented.

"And I _mean_ it every morning," LeBeau said. "We need Newkirk back. Before we all starve."

"Don't hold your breath," Kinch said bluntly. "Lange wants this place to stay quiet, at least until our new officer pal gets into the swing of life here in good old Stalag 13. Newkirk's a lot of things, but quiet isn't one of them."

"I'm afraid he's right," Forrest said. "I asked Schultz if he'd heard anything about when they might be releasing him."

"Pfft! Schultz? Don't tell me," LeBeau said, rolling his eyes. "He knew nothing?"

"You're not pronouncing it right," Richmond said, trying to lighten the mood. "It's more like 'nusss-zink.'"

"It is no joking matter," LeBeau snapped. "He will be sick again if they do not let him out soon."

"He's tough. He'll manage," Forrest said for the umpteenth time. "Schultz said that there's no word on a release date, but that he's doing well enough. Hang on to that."

LeBeau scowled at his breakfast again. "Schultz. The great medical authority. _C'est formidable_. This officer has brought nothing but bad luck. Lange is beside himself, Newkirk is now _Le Corporal de Monte-Cristo_ , and we cannot proceed with the tunnel."

"But aside from that, everything's hunky-dory," Kinch said. "Look, Louis, I know you're worried about Newkirk, but he'll be okay. He always is. And as for the tunnel… actually, I wanted to talk to you fellows about that. He seems all right. The Colonel, I mean. Don't you think we can let him in on the secret? That way we can get back to work."

"I don't know," Richmond said. "He does seem a decent fellow, but so did Weston, and we all know how _that_ turned out. He's only been here a few days. I'm not sure I care to risk my neck on a week's acquaintance."

The specter of Weston, as always, led to a moment of pained, awkward silence. Kinch, the relative newcomer, rallied first. "You only knew me for two weeks before I was in the club," he pointed out. "We're going to have to trust him eventually."

"'Eventually' and 'now' are two very different things," said LeBeau darkly. "I grant you, he seems nice enough, for an officer, but he has done nothing but go from barracks to barracks collecting dossiers on the men."

"Any CO would do that," Kinch argued. "If he's going to be running this zoo, he's going to have to know what he's got in the cages."

"Charming metaphor, that," Richmond said. "A bit too on the nose for my tastes, but charming nonetheless. You're right; it _is_ what a good CO would do. But it's also what a spy would do. I still say we give it a few more days."

Forrest leaned forward, his brow furrowed in thought. "While we're waiting, what if we get him to do us a bit of a favor? If he's on the level, he'd be happy to do it. If he's a grass, he'd jump at the chance to get in our good books. And, either way, we get something that _we_ want out of the deal."

Kinch lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

LeBeau had known him longer, and was therefore a bit quicker to read Forrest's mind. A smile like a sunrise lit up his face. "Newkirk, _n'est-ce pas_? Lange will never listen to us. But _le colonel_ might have a chance."

Forrest turned a hand palm-up with a tiny smile. "If he won't do it, or if he _can't_ do it, we're no worse off than we are now. And if he does manage to get our favorite scoundrel out of solitary… well, among other things, we just might have something for breakfast that would be worth waking up for."

"And we just might have a CO worth following," Kinch finished the thought.

Richmond bit his lip, thinking, then nodded. "I'll go for that. Maybe even mention the black marketing; explain that he's our scrounger and we need him. Show a little vulnerability and see if it comes back to bite us. Even if it does, it barely even counts as a secret; we're already paying off half the guards."

"Using the money that Pierre wins from them at poker in the first place," LeBeau said, the grin still crooking the corners of his mouth.

"Precisely," Forrest said. "As Newkirk would put it, it's time to ante up, wouldn't you say?"

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: _Le Corporal de Monte-Cristo_ , is, of course, a reference to the Dumas novel, about a man locked up in a bleak prison on false espionage charges, who escapes and proceeds to wreak vengeance on those who wronged him. Apparently, it's based on a true story. Looking back, between this reference and the 'Three Musketeers' jokes a few chapters back, it seems that LeBeau is fond of Dumas. Next time I'll have to try and work in a different famous French author, just for some variety. Victor Hugo, perhaps? We'll have to see.


	19. Chapter 19

Hogan had noticed the quick looks being traded amongst what he had pegged as being the ringleaders of the barracks over breakfast, and he considered them all once more. Forrest, as barracks chief, had a quiet, diffident competence about him that Hogan liked quite a bit. Kinch shared that air of calm, intelligent competence. The more gregarious Richmond had, paradoxically, made less of an impression on Hogan than the quiet, 'still waters run deep' American, but he was obviously Forrest's right hand, so there had to be something there. So much for the sergeants. The little French corporal was one of the men Hogan was having the most difficulty getting a read on; his constant state of tense anger was doing far too good a job of masking anything else that might be going on beneath that tattered beret. Something was up, and he wanted to know what it was.

He ran into Wilson as they left the mess hall after what Hogan could still hardly believe he was supposed to call breakfast. "Hello, Sergeant," he said cheerfully.

"Good morning, Colonel," Wilson said. "Not sure what's good about it, myself, but one can always hope."

"Ah, Wilson, you're a ray of light in my dismal life," Hogan said.

Wilson sighed. "Sorry, sir. I've got the beginnings of a flu outbreak over in Barracks Six. It's put a bit of a damper on my sunny disposition."

"Flu? That sounds serious. Is there anything you need?"

"Better question would be, is there anything I _have_. And the answer's no. I was actually hoping I could borrow your chef. We've organized some vegetables, and if he could make a broth, it would be a help."

"My what?"

"Your chef. LeBeau," Wilson said.

 _He's a chef? Huh._ "I'll let him know. I'm sure he'd be happy to help," Hogan said. "Make a list of anything else you want, and I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," Wilson said, trying not to let himself expect too much. "I appreciate that. We can't lose any more men. We just _can't_."

Hogan nodded. "I understand. Actually… speaking of which. The man who died. You said he'd sustained a head injury. What happened? An escape attempt gone bad, or did the Krauts work him over here in camp?"

"Neither," said Wilson, his face hardening. "The way I heard it, there was some sort of fight in the barracks. Blunt force trauma, right here." Wilson pointed to the spot. "Name was Browning. Either he got punched, fell back and hit his head on something hard, or his opponent clocked him with a club of some sort. I've heard both versions."

"Wait," Hogan said. "You're telling me that he was killed by one of _ours?_ "

"'Fraid so, sir," Wilson said. "I'm getting all of this second or third-hand, and the story keeps changing in the telling, so I couldn't say with any certainty if it was accidental, or heat of the moment, or what."

"It doesn't matter. Murder is murder," Hogan said, visceral disgust in his voice.

"No argument there," Wilson said. "Look, sir, I have to get back to my patients. Send LeBeau over when you can, please?"

"Of course," Hogan said, still disturbed. He opened the door of Barracks Two, and was only mildly surprised to see the four breakfast-time plotters ranged by the door of his office, all showing the mixture of hope, embarrassment, and apprehension that usually meant a request was on the way.

And it was the corporal who took the initiative. "Your pardon, _mon Colonel_ ," he said politely. "May we have a moment of your time?"

"My calendar's pretty clear," Hogan said. "Come in. What can I do for you gents?"

Forrest smiled, a bit shyly. "We did want to ask you a favor, sir. It's about Corporal Newkirk."

Hogan's mind spun through a list of names, came up blank. "Newkirk…? Sorry; which one is he? I've met a lot of men this week."

"You have not yet met him; he is in the cooler," LeBeau explained. "Please, sir. He has been there long enough. Could you speak with the Kommandant on his behalf?"

Hogan snapped his fingers. "Right! Now I remember. You said he's the one who usually takes the bunk by the door."

"That's right, Colonel," Kinch agreed. "Worst bunk in the place. Right between the door and the window, so it's drafty on both ends, _and_ it's the one the Krauts bang on every morning."

"So why does he insist on sleeping there?"

" _Because_ it is the worst one," LeBeau said. "He says he just likes having something to complain about, but it is really because he will not let someone else sleep there and be miserable."

"But you share it with him?"

"Someone has to, Colonel," Kinch said. "And Louis likes having things to complain about, too."

" _That is_ _slander,_ and I resent it _,_ " LeBeau flared. "This is not about me!"

"Easy, LeBeau," Forrest said. "Not the time for an argument."

Richmond looked at Hogan. "Newkirk's our friend," he said simply. "None of the guards will tell us anything, and we're all worried about him. We were hoping that, as the new senior POW, you might at least be able to get in to see if he's all right."

Hogan considered the question. "I can probably convince Lange to let me see him," he said slowly. "But that isn't really what you came here to ask, is it?"

LeBeau shook his head. "No, sir. Not really. I… we hoped that you could try to have him released. Lange will not even say how long he intends to keep Pierre locked up in there. Please, _Colonel_. He is not a bad person."

"Of course not," Hogan said. "He's one of ours, after all. I'll see what I can do. Oh, and LeBeau—Sergeant Wilson asked me to let you know that he needs your help. Could you make up some soup for his patients?"

" _Oui, mon Colonel_ ," LeBeau said promptly, trying to fight off the smile that wanted to spread across his face and not having much luck. It transformed him.

In fact, unguarded happiness flickered across all four faces, and it was good to see. Hogan wondered if the chilly tension he'd noticed in the barracks had anything to do with his own presence, after all. If the primary difficulty was worry for an absent friend, springing this Newkirk fellow just might be the shortcut to raising the emotional temperature a few degrees. In any case, it couldn't hurt. How much trouble could one corporal more or less really be?

Accordingly, late the next afternoon, Hogan found himself being escorted into the cooler. He suppressed a shiver that was only partially due to the icy air as he walked past the rows of cells. Most, he was relieved to note, were open and empty. At least one had a set of shackles dangling from a ring driven into the wall, and he suppressed another shudder that had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold.

They went down a flight of stairs. Impossibly, the air got colder. The guard, with a nasty expression somewhere between a sneer and a smirk, opened the tiny observation panel on one of the heavy steel doors and waved Hogan over.

Gray. The cell was entirely gray. The walls were gray, the dirty straw on the cement floor was gray, the filthy mattress and ragged blanket were gray, even the dim light, somehow, managed to be gray. Everything was gray. That included the wraithlike man on the cot; his uniform, once blue, had long since faded, and his skin, stretched taut and dull over too-prominent bones, was the same sickly shade. Only his eyes, sunken and shadowed through they were, retained any color at all.

Hogan frowned at the guard. "This is inhuman. How long does the Kommandant plan on keeping him locked up in here? When is he going to let him out?"

Before the guard, one Richter, could say anything, Newkirk answered. His voice was strident, amused, and had an accent Hogan could have cut with a knife. "Well, sir, they tell me the war 'as to end _sometime_. Sooner or later, I'm sure I'll be liberated."

Hogan shook his head. "I wasn't talking about the camp; I was talking about the cooler."

"Yes sir. So was I, sir," Newkirk said, straight-faced, and got up from the cot to stand by the observation panel.

"I see," Hogan said, suddenly interested in whatever was going on behind those bright eyes. Whoever or whatever this man was, he was indubitably awake and alive. "Glad you're keeping a positive attitude. How long have you been in here?"

"Well, sir," Newkirk said. "I do try to keep me spirits up. Been in since the tail end of '39, sir."

"Not the camp; I was still talking about the cooler…" Hogan began, then, recognizing the trap he'd fallen into, rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know. So were you. Seriously, though. How long?"

"It's not that bad, sir. Only been a couple of weeks so far. I've 'ad worse. Thanks for asking, though, sir."

"I'll try to get you out as soon as I can," Hogan promised. "You say you've been here since '39?"

"Afraid so, sir," Newkirk said. "Lucky in cards, unlucky in bombing raids, or something along those lines."

Hogan nodded. "Well, I know where to go if I need any details on camp history."

"Any time you like, Colonel! Makes for fascinating listening," Newkirk said cheerfully. "Some days we eat cabbage soup and mill about, trying to keep warm. Other days, sir, we get _potato_ soup and mill about, trying to keep warm."

Hogan caught the glitter in those green eyes. He was being measured, he could tell. The wry jokes were a test— perhaps Hogan would snap out a quick reprimand, in which case he was a martinet, and would be treated with scrupulous military courtesy and kept at arms-length. Perhaps Hogan would simply fail to notice that he was being teased, in which case he was a dullard, and would be sirred, saluted, and sidelined. Hogan might choose to ignore the humor and go on with the conversation, colonel to corporal… in which case, corporal to colonel was all he would ever get in return. These were extraordinary circumstances, and simple military courtesy was not going to suffice. He chose, therefore, to grin at the Englishman. And to joke back.

"Sheer poetry," he said, mock-admiringly. "How do you ever stand the excitement of it all?"

Newkirk's mouth quirked up at the corners. "Clean living, sir. No drink, no rich foods, no birds, no gallivanting."

"Oh, is that the secret?" Hogan asked.

"No, sir. It's just that, when we all think about 'aving to live without those things, a little hypothermia and malnutrition don't seem so ruddy bad by comparison." His voice was still as respectful as you could ask, but the mischievous glitter in his eyes was getting brighter by the moment, a stark contrast to his wasted body and filthy condition.

 _He's running on sheer willpower,_ Hogan thought. _Two weeks in here, more than two years out there… he's holding himself together with safety pins and stubbornness, and he should have collapsed a long time ago._

 _I want this one!_

"I'll keep that in mind. I must say, Corporal, you've got quite a way with words," Hogan said.

"I know," Newkirk said. "That's why I'm _usually_ in 'ere."

"Usually?" Hogan frowned, no longer amused. "The Krauts toss you in here often?"

He shrugged. "Often enough, sir," he said. "Most of the time I deserve it." It was true.

"Well, don't get too comfortable. I'm going to get you out of here," Hogan promised.

Newkirk smiled. "Thank you, sir," he said. "There are a lot of things to be said for 'aving a private room, but, to be quite honest, sir, if this is the room we're talking about, most of those things would get a bloke's mouth washed out with soap."

"You don't need to tell me the details. I can imagine," Hogan said. "I'll settle up at the front desk, and send the bellhop down for your luggage as soon as I can."

The guard, apparently a bit miffed at having been left out of the conversation, broke back in. " **Nein**. The Englander stays until the Kommandant says otherwise."

"I know," Hogan said. "I'll talk to him."

"Perhaps the Englander would rather stay here," Richter said, still smirking.

"What? Why on earth would he want that?"

"Ah. Only because the Kommandant put him here to keep him safe," the guard said. "We are very kind, we Germans. We would not wish to see him hurt."

Newkirk rolled his eyes expressively. "That's quite right, sir," he said dryly. "The Kommandant's been like a father to me." True again. He actually had fonder feelings towards that bloody sadistic bastard Lange than he did his father, which was saying something.

Hogan shook his head to clear it. "That's… touching. Why would they be worried that you'd get hurt?"

"The other prisoners… they were very upset after poor Browning died," Richter explained. "Very upset. They wanted to, as you say, 'handle' the situation themselves. Revenge is an ugly thing, is it not, Colonel?"

Hogan stared at him, then at Newkirk. " _You?_ You're the one who got Browning killed?"

Newkirk looked away. "Yes, sir. It's my fault, what 'appened to 'im. I told Kinch, I _told_ 'im, it wasn't right, 'e needed to leave me be. Browning… 'e should never 'ave been there in the first place." He had forgotten Richter, forgotten the ruse. Forgotten Hogan, to be quite honest. He was, again, telling the truth as he saw it. Maybe he hadn't physically struck the blow, but, so far as he was concerned, it was still his fault that Browning was dead.

"I see," Hogan said coldly, and made a snap decision. "Well, Corporal, I'm glad you told me."

"Sir?"

"I'll see what I can do about your situation," Hogan said. He meant it. Handling this sordid mess was yet another top priority. First impressions be damned; the last thing he needed was a cold-blooded killer in his camp. Either he'd arrange to smuggle the sonovabitch back to London to stand charges, or he could sit in the cooler until he rotted; Hogan didn't much care which.

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: And, once again, what one man is saying is not what the other man hears. Language is a cruel thing. As is guilt.


	20. Chapter 20

If ever there was a man who looked as though he had just made a lifelong friend, Kinch thought as the door slammed decisively shut behind the colonel, Hogan wasn't it. Somehow, he suspected, the colonel was not about to gather them in his office with a cheerful smile and the news that Newkirk would be free any time soon. 'Cheerful' was about the last word he would have used to describe his demeanor, in fact, not when descriptors like 'infuriated' or 'irate' were there for the choosing. Kinch sighed. There were several possible reasons that Hogan might be looking as though he was seriously considering the merits of biting steel nails in two. Either Lange had acted like Lange usually did, or Newkirk had acted, well, like Newkirk usually did. Frankly, Kinch wasn't sure which of the two would be worse in the long run.

And just to put the cherry on top, LeBeau, who had no compunctions about rushing in where angels feared to tread if he deemed it necessary, squared his shoulders and rapped on the door, presumably gearing himself up to act like _LeBeau_ usually did.

"Come in," Hogan barked.

Kinch spent a millisecond or two trying to convince himself that LeBeau's apparent need to get his head bitten off was entirely his own affair, and therefore not something that required Kinch's assistance or supervision, but was unable to come up with any really compelling arguments to support that position. He hadn't expected to. He stood up and followed the Frenchman into Hogan's office without a word.

He wasn't particularly surprised when Forrest and Richmond flanked him. They weren't too good at coming up with self-preservatory justifications, either. Really, between the five of them, it was a miracle that any of them had made it this long.

Hogan was sitting at his desk, positively exuding all the warmth and good fellowship of a loaded handgun, or possibly a bear with a rear end full of burrs. "Corporal LeBeau. Sergeant Forrest, Sergeant Richmond. Sergeant Kinchloe. Was there something you wanted?"

"Yes, _mon Colonel_ ," LeBeau said, eyes steely and determined. "May I ask, sir, if you were able to see Pierre?"

"I saw him," Hogan said. His tone might easily have discouraged a less motivated querent from continuing the conversation.

It had no perceivable effect on LeBeau. "And, sir, do you know when he might be released?"

Hogan's lips stretched into something that wasn't actually a smile. "Well. As he put it himself, the war has to end _eventually_. For now, though, I think he's right where he ought to be. If that was all?"

Forrest put a quelling hand on LeBeau's shoulder. The unspoken implication was that the other hand could easily be clapped over his mouth. "I see, sir," Forrest said. "We do appreciate that you tried. Sir."

"Yeah, I know how anxious you all were to have him back in the barracks," Hogan said dryly. He didn't especially appreciate being played for a fool, and he was more than a little disgusted that Forrest had allowed discipline to descend into eye-for-an-eye mob justice. "But given the circumstances, it didn't seem prudent."

Richmond blinked. "Prudent, sir?"

"Prudent," Hogan agreed. "Corporal Newkirk was kind enough to fill me in on a few details that you gentlemen inexplicably failed to mention. About Browning, and the particulars of his death, among others."

Forrest looked as though he'd been hit with a board. "Newkirk told you about that?"

"He did."

"What, all of it?"

"He was entirely forthcoming about the whole sordid affair," Hogan said. "Frankly, I appreciated the honesty. He's an utter disgrace to the uniform in all other respects, perhaps, but he's the only one who didn't try to hoodwink me. I realize I haven't been here that long, but as the ranking officer, I feel I have the right to expect at _least_ that courtesy from my men."

Kinch saw LeBeau stiffen; he wasn't sure how much of that was a reaction to the harsh reprimand and how much was pure offense on Newkirk's behalf, but he cut in before his friend could dig himself any deeper.

"I apologize, Colonel," he said quietly. "On behalf of all of us in Barracks Two. I hope you can understand, though, that we've been trying to keep the whole thing a very closely guarded secret. For everyone's sake."

Hogan frowned. "Exactly so, Sergeant. For everyone's sake. Like it or not, gentlemen, I'm in command here. That means I need to be on top of each and every aspect of what's going on in this camp. No more secrets, no more plots, no more conspiracies. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Forrest said.

"I'll take care of the Newkirk matter," Hogan promised. "But we handle it my way. It's bad enough the Krauts know what you were planning."

"They know?" Richmond had turned a delicate pea-green. He wasn't sure how much more bad news he could take in the course of a single dressing-down.

"I assume Newkirk told them," Hogan said.

LeBeau shook his head. "No. He would not. Not he. No matter what they did to him."

"It didn't seem to come as a surprise to the guard when Newkirk was telling me about it," Hogan said doggedly. "If anything, he seemed rather amused by the whole thing."

"Impossible. They can't have known, sir," Forrest said. "If Newkirk had told them about the tunnel, if they even suspected anything of the sort, they'd have swarmed in here to fill it in and lock the rest of us away, long since."

Hogan opened his mouth to retort, then drew back. "Tunnel? What tunnel?"

LeBeau shot Forrest a truly poisonous look. " _Damn it, Forrest! I told you he would never have said anything! The oldest trick in the book, and you—_ "

Hogan's eyes narrowed. "All right, I've tried being patient, but now I want some straight answers. What in blazes is going on here?"

Kinch stepped in again, cutting LeBeau off before he could warm to his subject. Being the levelheaded one was no fun at all. "Yes, sir. We've been digging an escape tunnel," he said. "No offense intended, sir, but we were a bit hesitant to involve you. As you said yourself, you haven't been here all that long."

Hogan's eyes sparked with interest. "How far have you gotten?"

Richmond sighed. The game was well and truly up. "Not terribly far, I'm afraid. We've had some difficulties disposing of the dirt, for one thing, and, for another, several weeks back, there was a partial collapse."

"I see," Hogan said, disappointed. "How much of it was lost?"

"Not that much, actually," Kinch said. "Six or seven yards, at most. The damage has already been repaired. And we've been more careful with the props since. I can't say that anything about that awful night was _lucky_ , God knows, but just as regards the tunnel itself, things might have been worse."

"Why don't you show me?" Hogan asked. "The cat's already out of the bag, after all."

"Of course," Forrest said after a moment. The Newkirk question was, it appeared, going to be tabled for the time being. He supposed that a 'not now' was better than the 'absolutely not' with which they had begun the conversation, and he could understand why an escape tunnel would be of greater interest to the colonel than one wayward corporal, but it was still a bit discouraging. "It's over here, sir."

Richmond pulled the floorboards away from the tunnel entrance. "It's about ten feet down, then a straight shot towards the western fence. We're planning to emerge in the forest, where we'll have a bit of cover, you see."

"Yes, that makes sense," Hogan said. "Is this tunnel… er… structurally safe?"

"Not especially," LeBeau said bluntly. "Sir."

"Great. Is there a ladder?"

"No. We've been using any wood we can get our hands on to shore up the walls; we just plain haven't had any to spare for building ladders. There's a rope," Kinch said. "I'll tie it to the leg of the bunk."

"All right," Hogan said. "Let's see what's what."

One by one, they climbed down the rope, and began crawling through the tunnel. It was about a yard wide, and perhaps a bit less than a yard high, so 'crawling' was very much the operative word. As Kinch had explained, it was propped with a motley assortment of scraps cadged from every corner of the camp; slats from the bunks, stove wood, and anything else that they could find.

The cramped, airless space was not improved by the eerie shadows cast by the sole light source they had given him: an improvised miner's lamp—a milk can containing a stumpy candle—which Hogan had strapped to his head. The frequent showers of fine dust that cascaded from the roof of the tunnel weren't much of a selling point, either. In fact, the tunnel had essentially no good features except the simple fact of its existence. Whatever angel watched over fools and prisoners had to have been working double shifts, because the surprise was not that there had been a cave-in, but that any of it had stayed open.

It was painfully obvious that these men had no engineering experience whatsoever. They had shored up the walls as best they could, but that wasn't saying much. Their equipment consisted of one entrenching tool, several crude trowels made from tin cans hafted to bits of broomstick, a pick that bore a suspicious resemblance to a tire iron, a few buckets, and sheer determination.

He was impressed by their grit, if not their excavation techniques, but he was more than a little relieved when they returned to the barracks. The plywood huts were no bargain, but there was at least a fifty percent chance that they'd stay upright.

"Well, considering what you had to work with, you men have done a great job. I mean that," Hogan began. "But I think that, if you're willing to let me help you a little, we can make it a lot more comfortable. And probably a bit safer, too."

LeBeau had pulled off his beret and was brushing the dust out of it. He flicked a glance at his friends, then nodded minutely. Kinch, who was coiling up their rope, did, too. Richmond replaced the last of the floorboards over the tunnel entrance and turned a hand palm-up in a 'why not' sort of gesture.

Forrest made it unanimous. "I think that could only be a very good thing all around, Colonel. The sooner we finish the tunnel, the sooner we can _use_ it to get out of this wretched place."

Hogan nodded noncommittally. Now was not the time to ask for volunteers to remain in camp. "Yes. Escape is our first priority. Look, I'm going to level with you guys. I want us to think _bigger_ than just getting a few people out of here. Escaping in twos and threes is all well and good, but what if we could get out twenty, fifty, a _hundred_ guys at once?"

Judging by the looks on their faces, he mused, that had not sounded nearly as sane as he might have liked. "I know it sounds a bit farfetched," he said. "But think about it. If the tunnel was shored up and enlarged… a few forged papers, some civilian clothing… the men could stroll right out of Germany without turning a hair. And while it would be a nuisance for Lange to lose five or six men, losing a hundred would be a catastrophe!"

Kinch was the first to speak. "I'll admit I like the sound of that, Colonel. But the question isn't whether we'd _like_ it. The question is how could we _do_ it?"

Hogan grinned. "Leave that to me. I'm arranging for Santa Claus to come a bit early this year. He'll bring us the tools we need to pull it off. All we need to do is find the right men to use them."

"I am not bad with a needle," LeBeau volunteered. "But Newkirk is better still. If you wish someone to make your civilian clothing, _mon Colonel_ , he is the one you need."

Hogan ignored that. "There's a man over in Barracks Four who was a tailor in civilian life. He's Russian. He said none of us pronounce his name properly, so we should just call him 'Sam.' That's who I'd like to put in charge of our little atelier. If you can sew, I'm sure he'd appreciate the help."

"Sam…? Oh! Yes, I know who you mean," Forrest said. "He's a good chap."

"Seemed like it," Hogan said. "I've also located two men with mining experience. One in Barracks Three, one in Seven. I'm going to have them take a look at your tunnel, and see what they think. If worst comes to worst and we have to start over, at least we can use it to dispose of the dirt."

Steam was not quite coming out of LeBeau's ears, but he wasn't far from it. " _Oui, mon colonel,_ " he said. "But sir. What about Newkirk?"

"Newkirk is no longer your concern," Hogan snapped, tired of being nagged. Here he was trying to organize an intelligence and sabotage unit, trying to do something _important_ for the war effort, and the men's constant harping on a single bad apple was rasping on his last nerve. "Forget about him! I need you to focus on what's at stake here! Get your head in the game, Corporal!"

LeBeau snapped to attention. "Yes, sir," he said. His emotional temperature plummeted, going from heated frustration to icy contempt in the blink of an eye. Plainly, this new officer did not care what became of them, and in all probability could not be coaxed into caring; very well. He would go and check on Newkirk himself.

Getting _into_ the cooler was no difficult task, after all.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Sam, the pilot-only tailor, did seem like rather a decent fellow in the brief couple of scenes in which he appeared. (His name was probably something more like Semyon, and the others probably did butcher the pronunciation, especially if he tried to get them to use his patronymic.) As for LeBeau's sewing abilities, according to the show, sometimes he was quite good, and sometimes he couldn't manage to sew on a button… and it is an undeniable fact that his sweater always had tears. I'm going to make the unilateral decision that he was good, if not great, and leave it at that.

Hogan is being rather awful here, but in his defense, he's _completely_ overwhelmed by everything he's trying to do, he's feeling duped and betrayed by men who, so far as he can tell, are little short of vigilantes, and he's still second-guessing himself at a rate of about six times a minute. This on top of the normal pressures of being a POW, a CO, and a spy. He'll get better. I promise.


	21. Chapter 21

"Forrest, a moment?"

"Of course, LeBeau. What's the matter?"

"I am going to skip morning roll call," LeBeau announced.

"What? Why? The Jerries will go absolutely spare!"

"I know. I will 'oversleep,' and when they find me still in bed, they will put me in the cooler for a few days. Probably not more than a week."

Forrest studied him for a moment. "Well, give Newkirk my regards," he said.

LeBeau smiled. " _Ouais,_ I will."

"But, LeBeau… there is one other thing," Forrest said. "Yes, the Jerries will be a bit sore. But have you considered that the colonel likely will be, as well? How do you plan on explaining this to him?"

"Explain?" LeBeau shrugged. "I overslept. What is there to explain?"

"Oh, pull the other one," Forrest said. "You know he's not going to be fooled by that. He's going to know perfectly well that you did it in order to check on Newkirk. And, seeing as how he specifically ordered you to do nothing of the sort, that is not going to go over well."

"I don't care," LeBeau said. "Let him be as angry with me as he likes. He has already decided that Pierre is not worth saving. And I have already decided that this Hogan is an utter—"

"LeBeau… be fair. He's got some good ideas," Forrest said. "I didn't know there were miners in camp. Did you?"

"No. I did not. Nor did I know that you would be so ready to abandon our friend the moment an officer snapped his fingers." LeBeau did not tack on any of the epithets that would have expressed his opinion of such an attitude more succinctly. But then, given his expression and tone of voice, he didn't really have to.

"I'm not abandoning anyone, LeBeau, and I don't ruddy appreciate the implication that I would, either," Forrest said sharply.

"Well, I did not appreciate being told that Pierre was no longer my concern. That is not for this Hogan to decide, rank or no rank!" LeBeau shook his head. "Enough. Pierre is my friend. I am going to the cooler, and I will make sure he is all right, and that he knows he is not alone. If that means _le colonel_ casts me aside as well, so be it."

"LeBeau, you're being needlessly overdramatic. He'll be released, just like always, probably in another couple of weeks at most. At which point he'll be back down in the tunnel with us, just like always, except _this_ time we'll have someone there who knows what they're doing, and no more mistakes, damn it all! There is nothing to be gained by making an enemy of the CO, and, frankly, I'd say we _all_ have a great deal to lose! _Including_ Newkirk!"

"Yes! A very great deal to lose. If we leave him there much longer, what we lose will be Newkirk!" LeBeau took a deep, ragged breath. "You heard the colonel. A 'disgrace to the uniform?' Pierre is 'right where he ought to be?' He has no intention of getting Newkirk released. He will have him transferred, or leave him to rot in the cooler, where he can continue to crucify himself over an accident none of us caused and no one could have prevented. I will not let this happen, do you hear me? I will not!"

"An accident? What accident would that be?"

Both men spun about, identical looks of shock on their faces. Hogan was leaning casually against a bunk, his arms folded casually across his chest. The only thing about him that was _not_ casual was the steely do-or-die look in his eyes.

"How long… Did you… What do… oh, God," Forrest sputtered.

"How long? Five minutes or so. Did I, what? Did I hear your little strategy session? Yes, I did. Interesting stuff. I'm almost sure I remember telling you gents that I don't like being left in the dark, and I especially don't like being blindsided by my own men," Hogan said. "Now answer the damned question. What's going on here? What's this accident you're talking about?"

"Browning," LeBeau said. "We are talking about the accident that killed him. And which will kill Newkirk if something is not done soon."

Hogan's eyes narrowed. "Newkirk. Suddenly I'm beginning to suspect that the corporal wasn't being nearly as forthcoming as I thought. Talk. Now!"

Forrest sighed. "If you recall, sir, we mentioned that several weeks back, there was a partial collapse? A few men were trapped in it. Newkirk was literally buried alive, and Louis, here, damned near suffocated."

"And Browning?"

"Rockfall," Forrest said. "You've seen the tunnel. You know how unstable it is. In order to rescue the men, we needed to move a great deal of dirt very quickly, and that triggered a few secondary collapses. Browning was caught in one of them. Saying that he had been in a fight was the only cover story we could come up with on the spot."

"Wait a minute. Even if that was the story you told the Krauts, why the hell would he tell me he'd murdered Browning?"

LeBeau shrugged. "Did he? Or did he say he was to blame?"

Hogan narrowed his eyes. That sounded like semantics. He suspected that it wasn't. "If it was a tunnel collapse, why would he be blaming himself, either way?"

"Probably because Newkirk is under the impression that the sun would not rise in the morning if he didn't tell it to do so," LeBeau said. "Browning was injured while aiding in the rescue; Pierre was the one trapped; therefore it is his fault." He scowled. "He is my friend, but there are times when it would be a great pleasure to beat some sense into his stubborn head."

"I see," Hogan said slowly, replaying a number of comments in his head. _I told Kinch to leave me. It's my fault. Browning should never have been there._ They sounded a lot different, this time around. He frowned. "And the reason the guard told me that you all wanted to kill him?"

"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," Forrest said. "A bit of reverse psychology, you know? We were trying to convince Lange that he'd suffer more in here with us than he would in the cooler. And it _worked_ , too, at least at first."

Hogan lifted an eyebrow. "At first?"

"Until Lange heard that an officer was coming and became nervous that you would think the worse of him for it if we were to execute one of our own under his very nose," LeBeau said. "That is a privilege he reserves for himself."

"I'm not sure how much worse I could think of our esteemed Kommandant, but I can see his point," Hogan said. "The Red Cross might have had something to say about it, too."

"I doubt it. They haven't yet," LeBeau muttered.

Not entirely true, but this didn't seem like the time to explain about Stephens and his complex association with the Red Cross. "So," Hogan said, still putting all the pieces together. "Browning was hurt when the tunnel caved in. You all claimed that Newkirk killed him because you were trying to prevent the Krauts from finding the tunnel… and then you all threatened to kill _Newkirk_ because you were trying to prevent the Krauts from tossing him in the cooler. This is some crazy war we've got here. I never knew that being a prisoner of war would be so blasted _complicated_."

"For what it's worth, sir," Forrest said ruefully. "I didn't, either."

Hogan shook his head. "Well, one thing is simple enough. I need to mosey on down to the Kommandant's office and sweet-talk him into springing Newkirk. Any corporal who can cause _this_ much trouble when he's not even _here_ is too valuable to leave in solitary."

LeBeau beamed. "Thank you, _mon Colonel_ ," he said.

"Yeah, don't thank me yet. Finagling Lange isn't going to be any picnic; just going on my first impressions of the guy, he's got this strange aversion to doing anything that would make a prisoner happy. As I'm sure you're well aware." Hogan shoved his cap back. "You know, this would have been a whole lot easier if you men had been more honest with me. And your friend might have been out of the cooler a lot sooner."

LeBeau met his eyes. "Sir… I have been here for quite a while," he said quietly. "I've seen a lot of men come and go. Including several officers. And not… not all of them were trustworthy _. Pardon_ , sir, but there were more lives than just mine—just ours—at stake."

Hogan couldn't really argue with that. "I understand," he said. "Thank you for telling me."

"You have all of our lives in your hand now, _Colonel_." LeBeau shrugged. "There is nothing for us to do now except to wait. And to see what you do with them."

Hogan nodded. He had started this conversation in a state of high dudgeon, but somehow, he wasn't angry anymore. Truth be told, he was too intrigued to be angry. These men, with their byzantine plots, their apparently well-founded paranoia, and the undercurrent of bone-deep loyalty, were a great deal more than they seemed. Bringing this Newkirk back into the mix, he suspected, would change everything he had observed in this volatile barracks. Either his presence would stabilize the entire group, or something would blow sky-high.

A certain mischievous voice in the back of his head commented that, whichever way things turned out, it was going to be very interesting to watch.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Two days later, Hogan was lurking near the Kommandantur. LeBeau was waiting at the gate of the cooler, impatiently waiting for Newkirk to emerge. And when he did, Hogan was bemused to see that, roughly two minutes after their genuinely delighted reunion, they were arguing.

(Two days after that, he understood that he might as well get used to it, because they weren't going to stop. Two _months_ after that, he understood that it was their idiosyncratic way of expressing affection. And two years after that, well… he just plain understood.)

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Things were comparatively quiet for a couple of weeks. Two absolutely brutal poker games and a mysteriously missing wallet later, they were back in the black market, which meant LeBeau was back in the kitchen. Sam had transferred into Barracks Two, lock, stock, and tailoring gear, which meant that the rest of the men were learning Russian in self-defense. The tunnel hadn't gotten much further, primarily because the two miners had taken one look at it and appeared to fight off simultaneous heart attacks. One had turned green. The other had gone sheet-white. Hogan was no judge of subterranean engineering, but their reactions had not, to his mind at least, indicated a great deal of confidence in the construction. Foxton had actually been a bit insulted.

Hogan had a lot of plans in mind. Oh, yes, a great many plans. Slowly but surely, he was getting his feet under him, and he thought he was really getting a handle on this camp, these men, this mission.

At the risk of mixing his sports metaphors, the fight seemed to come straight out of left field.

A number of prisoners had formed a rough ring, within which two men were circling each other, fists doubled and ready. Both were already a bit battered—a dribble of blood here, the beginnings of a black eye there, and so forth—but neither man looked even close to backing down. Indeed, both were grinning just a bit, anticipatory or amused.

Hogan did not appear amused to recognize the combatants as Sergeant Kinchloe and Corporal Newkirk, and even less amused to realize that at least half of the spectators were betting on the outcome of the fight. Said spectators included most of the guards, who apparently had nothing better to do with their time.

Kinchloe fought like the trained boxer he was. He was steady, methodical, carefully pacing himself for the long haul, taking note of every minute flaw and opening in Newkirk's defenses and taking full advantage of each one. Newkirk fought like a ruthless street thug who knew that there were only two possible outcomes—victory and death—and knew, moreover, which he preferred. Mercy was not in his lexicon; he didn't offer it, and he certainly didn't expect it. Kinch was bigger, stronger, and far more skilled; that was his advantage. Newkirk didn't seem to notice or care how much punishment he took along the way so long as he was the one who was still standing at the end; that was his. Hogan had to squelch a momentary impulse to let the fight continue and see which technique won out. It didn't occur to him until much later that their tactics said a lot about their respective personalities.

"All right, knock it off! Both of you; stand down!" he barked, shoving his way into the ring. "What the hell's the matter with you? You're supposed to be on the same side, damn it!"

Three eyes met his. (One green eye was already turning a fascinating shade of purple, but who was counting?)

"Ah, Colonel Hogan," Kinch began.

Hogan wasn't having any. "Would anyone like to explain precisely what in the name of God is going on out here? Fighting? In front of the Krauts? You'd better have a damned good explanation!"

Newkirk took a deep breath. "It was me, sir. I provoked 'im."

Kinch growled. "Damn it, Pete; don't you ever get tired of falling on your sword? Colonel, it wasn't a real fight. Just a little bit of sparring. For fun. And, um… a few side bets."

"Well? Which is it?" Hogan asked. "Were you fighting, in clear contravention of the rules of conduct, or were you fraternizing with the enemy by gambling with the Krauts?"

"Er… Which one will get us a lighter sentence, sir?" Newkirk asked.

"Are you trying to be funny, Corporal?" Hogan barked. "If so, I'd strongly advise you to reconsider that as a strategy!"

Newkirk, who quite obviously didn't _have_ another strategy on which he could fall back, went silent. So did Kinch. The silence stretched.

"My office. Both of you. _Now_." Trusting that they would follow, Hogan turned on his heel and stormed into the barracks.

The two men in question traded glances; Kinch shrugged, and Newkirk sighed minutely as they followed Hogan across the compound. The other POWs wandered off in twos and threes; the guards, disappointed, did, too. Watching two prisoners, especially two such _mismatched_ prisoners, having a fight was at least a bit of a distraction; a public dressing down from an incensed superior officer carried the potential for humor. A closed door offered neither, and several of the guards felt cheated.

"Just bloody marvelous," Newkirk groused.

"At least the Colonel can't send us to the cooler," Kinch replied, without much hope in his voice. He explored a split lip with his tongue, and grimaced. It was going to swell up like a cantaloupe, he could tell.

"Ours can't. Theirs can. And usually does," Newkirk said, rolling the one eye that was still in working order. Looking on the bright side was not his forte at the best of times, and being half-blind wasn't helping.

LeBeau and Forrest caught up with them at the door. "I left Richmond to finish settling the bets," Forrest said. "There was some grumbling, of course, but everyone will get back exactly what they started with, so there shouldn't be much trouble."

"Oh, good. That was really weighing on me conscience," Newkirk sniped. "Never mind that. Did it work?"

LeBeau grinned. " _Bien sur_! Like a charm," he said triumphantly.

"Well, that's a bit of all right," Newkirk said, and smiled.

Kinch's eyes glittered. "That's a _big_ bit of all right," he corrected. "Makes it all worthwhile. But I have to say—Newkirk, you have _got_ to be the dirtiest fighter I've ever seen."

"Gutter scum, mate," Newkirk said cheerfully. "Might not be pretty, but I've walked away from any number of fights with the same number of body parts I 'ad when I walked in. What more can a bloke ask?"

"He could _ask_ that his men obey orders," came a voice from the depths of the barracks. It was not a happy, cheerful voice. Not even a little bit. "He could _ask_ that they not sabotage camp morale. He could _ask_ that they not make us look ridiculous in front of the Krauts! My office, Corporal! On the double!"

Newkirk sighed again. "Nice knowing you, mates," he murmured, and walked into the barracks.

The other three exchanged looks, and followed. Hogan was standing by his desk, eyes ablaze and the rest of him a study in cold fury. "Close the door behind you," he said.

LeBeau did.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Apologies for the cliffhanger, folks.


	22. Chapter 22

Hogan waited just long enough to be sure that there were no eavesdroppers, then a smile that gave new meaning to the words 'ear to ear' spread across his face. "That was beautiful! Absolutely perfect!"

LeBeau beamed, too, and pulled off his heavy jacket. Several small cheesecloth bags were tied to a bandolier over his left shoulder, separated so that nothing could clink or clatter. " _Oui, Colonel!_ We have them." He undid the clasp, lay the whole belt on Hogan's desk.

Kinch reached for one of the bags, opened it. "That's a transmitter, all right," he said, satisfaction thick in his voice.

Newkirk's fingers explored the belt for a moment, then he rubbed the back of his neck, emerging with a small dagger.

"Wait. You carry a _knife?_ " Kinch asked, startled.

Newkirk gave him an odd look. "Only on days that end in a 'Y,' mate," he said.

"While I was punching the crap out of you, you were carrying a _knife_?"

"First of all, don't flatter yourself. Second of all… actually, there isn't a second of all," Newkirk said, carefully slitting the seam of the bandolier. He grinned, showing just a few too many teeth, as he pulled the stitching apart to reveal a coil of wire inside the fabric.

Kinch's eyes widened, just the tiniest bit. The dirtiest fighter he had ever seen, indeed.

Hogan opened another bag, weighed the component in his hand before carefully putting it down on the desk. "Well, how long do you think it will take you to turn these bits and pieces into a working radio?"

"Not too long," Kinch said. "These bits and pieces, anyway. We're going to need an antenna."

"How big does it need to be?" Hogan asked.

"At least six or seven feet," Kinch said. "And it needs to be as high as we can get it."

"On top of the guard tower, perhaps?" Forrest said.

"Maybe," Hogan said. "It needs to blend in, that's the most important thing. Or… maybe not. The secret might just be making it so obvious that the Krauts never notice it."

"Put it on the fence," LeBeau said. "All that barbed wire… one more bit of metal would be nothing."

"Might work," Kinch said, and chuckled. "Just have to make sure that those German steel-chomping termites don't go and eat it, right, Pete?"

Newkirk grinned at the memory, then froze. "The termites… that's it! The way they salute with their little antennas, a red swastika wrapped around their wings…" He held his hand to his head like an antenna, snapped it to attention. "What's an antenna, then? A metal pole on top of a building. What do they 'ang their swastika from? A metal pole on top of a building! We'll put _our_ antenna in _their_ flagpole, and who'd ever give it a second look?"

"Heaven knows I never look at that dreadful swastika if I can help it," Forrest agreed.

Hogan's grin, impossibly, got wider. "You know, I have the strangest feeling that there's going to be a leak in the roof of the Kommandantur. A really, really bad leak. Isn't that just awful? Who here has any experience fixing roofs, thank you, LeBeau, Kinch, and Newkirk."

LeBeau looked startled. "But _Colonel…_ I know nothing about fixing roofs!"

"That's perfectly all right," Hogan waved off the objection. "Do you know anything about looking busy when the boss is watching?"

"If 'e doesn't, that much I can teach 'im," Newkirk said.

"Perfect," Hogan said. "All the two of you need to do is make a lot of noise and do a bit of hammering while Kinch is installing the antenna. And try not to fall off."

"Roger that," Newkirk said. "Never done much in the way of carpentry, sir, but I'm no stranger to crawling about on roofs. Or to making a lot of noise, come to that."

LeBeau rolled his eyes at Newkirk. "If he can, I can. When shall we arrange for the leak?"

"Oh, not for a couple of days," Hogan said, making a mental note to inquire further about Newkirk's experiences with roof-crawling, sometime in the very near future. "We have to build the radio first. And arrange the metal for the antenna. And wait for it to rain."

Richmond knocked on the door, poked his head in. "Sir?"

"Come in, Richmond. All set?"

He did. "Yes, sir. None of the Krauts suspected a thing. Although a couple of them did ask me on the sly if there was any chance we could arrange for a rematch sometime when you're not around."

Kinch grimaced. "I'd rather not," he said wryly. "Not unless someone's willing to frisk Newkirk ahead of time. It's not that I don't trust you, Pete… it's just that I don't trust you."

Newkirk shook his head theatrically. "Blimey. You Yanks are something else. Afraid of a fair fight? For shame." Obviously too wounded to continue the discussion, he looked down, began cleaning the dirt from beneath his fingernails with the point of his knife.

LeBeau slapped him gently on the shoulder. "And the last time you were in a 'fair' fight was… when?"

"Probably the day I was shot down," Newkirk said, abandoning his manicure with a grin. "One might say I learned me lesson."

"Getting back to the business at hand," Hogan cut in. "As soon as we build the antenna, we can use the radio. When we've established contact with the Underground, we can arrange transportation out of Germany."

"And from there it's back to good old London," Forrest finished. "But it does all rather hinge on how soon we can get the tunnel redug."

"Not quite," Hogan corrected. "We'll get it done, that's not even a question. It all hinges on figuring out how to use the tunnel in such a way that the Krauts don't know we built it."

"What do you mean, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"I mean, we want this tunnel to be more than just a one-time thing. So long as Krauts keep putting our boys _into_ this lousy place, we're going to need a way to get them right back _out_ again. And the last thing we want is to have to keep digging the same tunnels over and over again. Therefore, we can't let the Krauts even suspect that it's there."

"How are we to get the boys out if we can't use the tunnel?" Richmond argued. "I realize that the Jerries here aren't exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer, but if ten or twenty men take French leave, even they are going to wonder how it was done."

Newkirk looked searchingly at Hogan for a moment. Working something out in his head, Hogan assumed; he didn't know the Englishman well enough yet to predict precisely what was going on under that blue cap, except to be fairly certain that, whatever it was, it would be yet more proof that 'uneducated' was not at all the same thing as 'stupid.'

Finally, slowly, he nodded. "Magic," he said. "That's what we need. We're going to use a magic trick to get the lads safe away."

And then again, maybe not. "Not magic," Hogan said carefully. "It'll take some luck, and some very careful timing, but I'm afraid I left my book of spells back in London."

Newkirk gave him an odd look, then stifled a chuckle. "No, sir. Sorry, sir; that did sound a tad strange, didn't it? I don't mean real magic. I'm talking about _stage_ magic, like I did back 'ome. It's all about misdirection," Newkirk explained. "Oh, look at me right 'and. Watch it very carefully, gents, abracadabra, presto change-o, and me left 'and does the work while you're distracted."

"But if we know to watch your left hand," LeBeau argued. "The trick will not work if we are on our guard."

"That so?" Newkirk flexed his hands, swept his cap off of his head, and ran his fingers briefly through his hair. "Kinch, mate—can I borrow that coin you keep in your pocket for luck? Just for a minute."

"Sure thing," Kinch said, handing over the half-dollar, and smiling a bit in anticipation.

"Thanks kindly," Newkirk said, tossing his cap onto the bunk, and held up the coin in his right hand where everyone could see it. "Right. 'Ere we 'ave a perfectly ordinary coin. What else should we use… of course. A 'andkerchief. Lots of magic tricks use those. Anybody got one?"

"Here," Forrest said, holding it out.

Newkirk leaned past Kinch to take it, then stopped, straightened up, giving Forrest a theatrically suspicious look. "Wait. That is a _clean_ one, isn't it?"

"As clean as your conscience," Forrest said.

"Blimey, in that case, I don't even want to touch the bleeding thing!" The men laughed. Forrest just rolled his eyes in amused exasperation as Newkirk stepped over, took the handkerchief, and returned to his place in the center of the circle.

"Right, I'll just shake it out, so you can see that there's nothing funny about it." He did so with a flourish. "Louie, you're the one what can't be tricked, so I'll give you Kinch's coin, and we'll see if you can 'ang on to it."

Warily, LeBeau extended his hand, palm up. Newkirk draped the handkerchief over LeBeau's palm, showily pressed the disc into the handkerchief, folded in the corners so that the coin was snugly wrapped in fabric, then closed LeBeau's fingers around it. "Right, you just keep that 'and where we can all see it, now. No slipping it in your pockets or anything sneaky like that."

Newkirk held up both his own hands, open and empty. "So. Kinch's coin is safe and sound in Louie's fist. Or is it?" He folded his own hand into a fist, and gently bumped it against LeBeau's. "Alakazam, 'ocus pocus, and all that. Show us what you've got, mate!"

LeBeau slowly opened his hand and unfolded the cloth. Sure enough, there was no coin there; just the golden RAF pin from Newkirk's cap, which was roughly the same size and shape. When had he taken that off? He looked at Newkirk who opened his own hand to show, again, not a coin, but Kinch's wristwatch, which he handed back with a bow.

"Thanks a lot, Pete," Kinch said wryly. "Now where's my coin?"

"What coin?"

"The one you're about to make appear from God-knows-where," Kinch said, strapping it back on his wrist.

"Don't know what you're on about, mate," Newkirk said mock-innocently. "Oi! Richmond! Turn out your pockets, there's a good lad."

Richmond, who was standing a good four feet away from Newkirk, made a face, but dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket… and to the surprise of no one, emerged with the half-dollar, which he handed back to Kinch.

Hogan whistled his approval. "All right; I'm officially impressed. How'd you do that?"

"Misdirection," Newkirk repeated simply, retrieving his cap to repin the badge in its accustomed place. "A little misdirection, a little talent, and a whole lot of practice. It works with coin tricks. I assume it'll work with Krauts, too."

Hogan's mind zipped through a great many implications very quickly. Sleight of hand was all very well, but, in addition to palming the badge and switching it for the coin, the man had demonstrated the ability to pick a pocket, steal a watch right off a man's wrist, and deposit the evidence in a third location. Within seconds. On the spur of the moment. With the rest of them watching his every move. Hogan had compiled a lengthy list of ways in which those skills could be very, very useful before Newkirk had quite finished reattaching his pin.

"You're exactly right, Newkirk," he said warmly. "We want to get a bunch of prisoners out of here without the Krauts knowing how we did it. So we're going to _show_ them how we did it. Or, at least, how we _could_ have done it."

Kinch turned the coin over in his fingers. "We're going to use the tunnel," he reasoned aloud. "So we want them to think we got the men out some other way…"

"Over the wire?" Newkirk suggested. "We cut the wires, maybe in two or three places, they won't look no further for escape routes."

"Throw a few bones into the dog pen," LeBeau added. "They'll assume we drugged the food, and that will be why they did not bark."

"We could, er, 'borrow' a few German uniforms from the dirty laundry," Richmond offered.

Hogan stuffed his hands into his pockets, pleased. "All good ideas. I'm not sure what you need _me_ for."

Newkirk shrugged whimsically. "Well, Colonel, while I appreciate the praise, they may sound like good ideas, but they're all things we've already tried, at one time or another. And you might notice that we're still 'ere."

Forrest snorted. "'We' tried?"

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Things _I_ tried, at one time or another. Difference is, this time they're not _supposed_ to work. All right?"

"Don't sell yourself short," Hogan said. "I imagine that they'll work quite nicely, if not quite how you originally intended."

"Story of me life," Newkirk muttered, not entirely under his breath.

Hogan smirked. "Anyway, first things first. We need to turn this pile of spare parts into a radio, and we need to get that antenna on the roof. I'll want that roof leaking like a sieve by the end of the week."

"No problem there, Colonel. Making holes is a lot easier than repairing them. We'll just take off a couple of shingles," Kinch smiled. "But wouldn't it be fun if a squirrel or something like that came in through the hole in the roof before we could fix it? Imagine him running around, knocking things over…"

"Crapping all over Lange's desk, chewing important papers, making a nest in 'is chair cushion," Newkirk continued, that truly evil grin on his face again. "Maybe 'e'd even bite our beloved Kommandant when 'e goes to sit down."

"Ah, no, Pierre; that is too cruel. He would need rabies shots!"

"Who cares if 'e does? Serve 'im right. I'm told those things 'urt like blazes."

"I was talking about the squirrel!"

The men laughed. Hogan didn't. "That is a brilliant idea. Just brilliant! Good job!"

They stopped laughing.

Hogan turned to Newkirk. "Can you get me a bunch of old papers from Lange's office? The good stuff. Letterhead, reports… anything that looks official and wouldn't be missed?"

He frowned. "Don't see why not. In fact, we've probably got some already. We're the ones what tidy 'is office, and the stuff in 'is wastebasket makes for good kindling on the rare occasions there's any wood for the stove."

"Excellent. And LeBeau, you're the chef. Is there a coffee mill to be had around here? Or a sausage grinder?"

"There is one in the guard's mess, I believe," LeBeau said. "I don't have one of my own."

"Well, we'll just have to borrow it," Hogan said. "Gentlemen, our poor Kommandant is about to have the worst rodent infestation in the history of the entire war."

This grand announcement, judging by the blank looks on the faces of the men, was not sufficiently enlightening in and of itself. Hogan continued. "A couple of holes in the walls, a few furry friends running around… those little guys will chew anything, isn't that a shame? If Lange happened to get some important information one day, and, by the next, nothing was left of it but a pile of shredded paper…?"

"While we're sending the originals off to London," Kinch filled in the blanks. "If somebody were to slip into the office some night… those pesky mice can do so much damage…"

Newkirk, who knew as well as anyone else precisely who that 'somebody' was going to end up being, snorted. "Figures, don't it? Just charming. The one bloody thing I swore I'd never do."

LeBeau looked concerned. "What is that, _mon pote_?"

"Why, be a rat," Newkirk said with a straight face.

Hogan's eyes glittered as he watched his men give that little sally precisely the reception it deserved. Yes. Stephens had sent him to the right place; no doubt about that.

Forrest wasn't laughing. Or helping his friends eviscerate Newkirk, either. His eyes were troubled. "Sir… Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted," Hogan said.

"You're talking about espionage," Forrest said bluntly. "A prisoner's first duty is to escape, and return to his own side. Not stealing intelligence or whatever else you're planning. Sir. The radio is one thing. That could be very useful in arranging our escape. And tunnels are self-evident. But, sir… you're not really talking about escaping, are you? You've something else in mind, don't you?"

Hogan studied his face for a moment. "I suppose now is as good a time as any," he said. "Yes, Forrest, I do have other plans. And yes, I am talking about espionage. About sabotage. About doing everything humanly possible to put a spoke in Adolf's wheel, and about doing all of it from right here inside Stalag 13."

You could have heard a pin drop in the barracks.

"I'm here to do just that," Hogan continued. "And I'm not about to order anyone to do anything besides treating this as top secret. I _can't_ order any of you to do anything, and I wouldn't if I could. Volunteers only. But I was sent here to form an undercover intelligence unit, and that does mean that I'm thinking on a scale a bit broader than just a single escape."

He looked around the room. Newkirk was watching him watching them. Forrest looked grim; Kinch looked thoughtful. LeBeau's face was carefully blank. And Richmond was white as a sheet.

"This is a big question," Hogan summed up. "And I don't want any snap decisions, either way. Let's get this radio put together, get working on the tunnel, start forging some Kraut travel papers. And, for the record, I won't hold it against anyone who decides that this isn't what they signed on for. No shame in it. I'll still get you out of here, safe back to London; you have my word on that. There are more ways than one to win this war, and if you think you'd be more useful back in the air, I can't fault you. Dismissed."

Quietly, perhaps a bit stunned, the men gathered up the radio components and returned them to their cheesecloth bags. Newkirk made his knife vanish somewhere into his clothing; he wasn't smiling anymore. All five of them left the office.

Ironically, as they scattered, they looked subdued and a bit stunned, as though they really had gotten the royal chewing out that Hogan had threatened after the now almost forgotten mock fight.

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: To 'take French leave' means to vanish without a proper farewell; it can also be used to mean going AWOL. The expression dates back at least two hundred years. The funny thing is that the phrase exists in a number of different languages, always picking on someone else. In French, it is 'filer a l'anglaise' or, 'to leave English-style.' In German, it's 'taking Polish leave.' Et cetera. Rudeness is universal; it's just that everyone thinks that the other fellow is the rude one, I suppose.


	23. Chapter 23

Through some alchemy he didn't bother explaining to anyone else, the same gentleman who had brought the radio components seemed to know precisely who was to be entrusted with the antenna. (The original parts had been delivered while ostensibly delivering a load of vegetables, and he had been decked out as an old farmer with a squint and an apparent disinterest in regular bathing. It had been a clever disguise, since none of the Germans had wanted to get close enough to the noisome fellow to get a good look at his face. Hogan made a mental note of the stratagem for later use. Preferably not his _own_ use, but that could be settled some other time. Rank had to have a _few_ privileges, and not smelling like a cross between a compost heap and the Thames at low tide, if it could possibly be avoided, was surely one of them.)

Forrest, Foxton, and Hawkins were doing a halfhearted job of picking up rubbish near the front gates under the eagle-eyed supervision of Corporal Otto, and the rather more lenient gaze of Colonel Hogan, when the jeep appeared at the gates and honked an irritated bid for entrance. Newkirk, his mostly empty trash bag slung over his shoulder, had entirely abandoned 'doing a halfhearted job' in favor of 'skiving off entirely,' and was unobtrusively propping up the wall of the guard tower. Under other circumstances, this dereliction of duty would have been looked upon with disfavor by guard and prisoner alike. Fortunately for him, the passengers, two men in black SS uniforms, flustered Otto enough that he did not notice the shirking, and the prisoners had other things to think about.

"So," said the SS lieutenant, giving the men a look that was about half a shade too polite to be an outright sneer. "Garbage carrying garbage, eh? I see, Corporal, that you have done the impossible! You have found a task that is within an Englander's capabilities. I commend you."

Otto snapped to attention. "Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant," he said happily. "The prisoners are kept busy, so that they do not make trouble."

 _Now_ the lieutenant sneered. "Oh, yes, yes, I see. You keep them very busy. Except for this one, eh? Does he have a note from his mother excusing him from the war?" Suiting the action to the word, he took two quick steps towards Newkirk and grabbed him by the arm, jerking him away from the wall. "You just stand there, eh, _inselaffe_? Afraid of a little honest work?" He shoved him towards the jeep; Newkirk stumbled and fell against it.

The other SS man reached down and dragged him roughly back to his feet, unobtrusively shoving a long metal pole into his hand as he did so. It looked quite similar to the sticks carried by the other prisoners. Not quite identical, but close. "Perhaps, Hansi, we should bring this one back to our headquarters, and we shall see if he can be taught a German work ethic?"

'Hansi' laughed. "Impossible. As if an Englander could ever be compared to a German in any way! Ridiculous!"

Hogan shoved his way over to Newkirk protectively, stood between him and Otto, blocking him from getting a close look at the stick. "All right, all right; you've had your fun, now leave him alone. Newkirk, get back to work before I put you on report."

"Yes, sir," Newkirk said, and began making his way back to the barracks, randomly stabbing at the ground here and there as he went. There wasn't any actual trash where he was stabbing, as a rule, but that was all right, since the stick in his hand didn't actually have a spike with which to pick it up if there had been.

Hogan turned to 'Hansi,' and nodded the tiniest bit. _Thank you._ "Well, Lieutenant, it's been a real pleasure seeing you. Feel free to drop in any time. Preferably without a parachute."

Hansi, also known as Jamison, chuckled. "Still insolent, I see," he said happily. _You're quite welcome._ "Well, Colonel, the day will come when you will be only too eager to tell us everything you know. I am patience itself. Corporal!"

Otto, impossibly, straightened up even further. "Yes, Herr Lieutenant?"

"You will deliver this to your Kommandant," he said, tossing over a dispatch envelope that contained eight beautifully forged pages of utter balderdash. "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler," Otto parroted as the pseudo SS men climbed back into their jeep and drove back around towards the gates, then out and away along the road.

That evening, a pry bar in hand, Newkirk shinnied dexterously to the roof of the Kommandantur, and removed several shingles. Hogan watched from the window.

"I hope the rain doesn't get onto the desk," Hogan said. "Or the filing cabinets. We might still want some of the stuff in there."

"Do not worry. We paced off the distance this afternoon," LeBeau said. "It will drip on the coat rack, and on the floor, but the papers will all be safe."

Richmond managed a smile. "Newkirk wouldn't let the rainwater hit the desk, Colonel. Lange keeps his schnapps there."

"Correction, then. We'll _definitely_ want some of the stuff in there," Hogan said, still watching the lithe figure on the roof. Hogan had seen mountain goats that were less sure-footed.

Kinch looked up from the crank mechanism he was installing at the bottom of the antenna. "This should do it, Colonel. All we can really do now is wait for it to rain."

Hogan smiled. "And after the storm... a beautiful rainbow."

OoOoOoOoO

It didn't rain that night. Or the next day. Hogan cursed himself for trusting a Kraut weather forecast as they trudged back to the barracks after breakfast.

Hogan plunked himself down next to Newkirk, who was dealing himself a hand of solitaire at their battered table. "Nice weather we're having," he said, just the slightest hint of irony in his voice.

"Yes, sir, it certainly is," Newkirk agreed disingenuously, and flipped over a card. Ace of clubs.

"Nice and warm," Hogan continued. "Not a cloud in the sky."

"Yes, the sun glittering off the machine guns just gets me right 'ere," Newkirk said, tapping his heart sentimentally.

Hogan abandoned the subtle approach. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

Newkirk saluted. "At your service, sir." Finally. Might as well get all the figurative cards on the table, he thought, scooping up the literal ones.

Hogan nodded. "A magician, eh?"

"Among other things," Newkirk said steadily.

"You're pretty good at climbing roofs," Hogan said.

"Very kind of you to say, sir."

"I watched you fight, and I wouldn't care to meet you in a dark alley. I've seen you picking pockets, and I'm told you're pretty good at picking locks." Hogan pushed back his cap. "Second story man?"

Newkirk smiled faintly. "Among other things," he repeated.

"What other things?"

"Short version? Anything what needs doing. Locked doors don't trouble me overmuch, and no pocket's safe from me if I decide I want a look inside. I can crack a safe, man a radio, tailor a suit, mimic any voice I 'ear, and I don't miss what I'm aiming at. I can also make a deck of cards do just about anything I tell it to, climb a wall without a rope, forge a travel pass, and sing tenor."

"You've had an adventurous life, sounds like," Hogan said. "I'd figured to meet Sergeant York here in camp. I hadn't quite expected Professor Moriarty."

Newkirk didn't dignify that with a response.

"I'm not going to beat around the bush. I've already told you all why I'm here and what I plan to do. I'm not trying to strong-arm you into anything, but you can see for yourself how valuable someone with your skills could be in a job like that."

"I do see that, sir," Newkirk said. "But I can also see that you're wondering exactly 'ow far you can trust a crook like me. If I'm willing to admit to this much, what might I be 'iding?"

"I'd have put it a bit more tactfully than that," Hogan said.

"Why bother?" he said. "It's a fair question, and no need to dress it up in its Sunday clothes. Once that aerial is in place, I suppose you could get London on the radio and ask them to check the police records."

Hogan shrugged. "I suppose I could. It would be quicker if I asked you to tell me what they'd find."

"Nothing," Newkirk said, with a fierce, almost defiant pride. "They'd find exactly nothing, sir. A few times when I assisted the constabulary with their inquiries, but no arrests. Not a one. Sir. I didn't end up in prison until I went and bloody enlisted, and don't think the irony hasn't occurred to me, either."

"I see. What does 'assisted with their inquiries' mean?"

"Means they knew I did it, or that I knew who did, but they 'ad no actual proof," Newkirk said, with a quirk in his lips that didn't have much to do with humor. "Means they dragged me into the back room and encouraged me to do me civic duty. But since they never 'ad anything on me, I always walked back out again."

"So what you're telling me is that you're good at what you do. And tough enough not to crack under… vigorous persuasion. I like it. I only have one real question."

"What is that, sir?"

"Like I said. A man with your talents would be invaluable in the sort of outfit I'm running. And I don't care how you came by those skills. I really don't, and I'm not asking. All I want to know is whether, among those things the cops knew you did and couldn't prove, there was ever anything worse than theft?"

"Sir?"

"Murder. Rape. Arson. Kidnapping. Assault. Anything like that?"

His eyes widened. "Bloody _'ell_ , sir. What do you take me for?" There was a small red spot on each cheek, but he sounded more hurt than angry. "I steal, sir. I cheat at cards. Someone comes after me to do me wrong, if I can't run I'll defend meself, I'll admit to that, and when they wake up wishing they'd left me alone, I don't 'ave much sympathy. But I'm no killer, and I don't 'urt innocents. Sir."

"This is war," Hogan said quietly. "You might have to."

"This is war," Newkirk agreed. "I'll grant you, the rules are different. But I'm a soldier, not a murderer. And with all due respect, sir, I resent the implication."

Hogan adjusted his cap. "In your place, I would too," he said. "But I won't apologize for asking. I had a feeling… but you know I had to ask."

"Yes sir," Newkirk said. It was acknowledgement, not agreement.

One more thing occurred to him. "Say, Newkirk," he said. "About those cards that do what you tell them to. I know you cheat the guards. I've heard you run crooked card games among the prisoners, too. Is that true?"

"'Course it is, Colonel," he said bluntly. "If I didn't cheat, 'ow could I possibly keep things fair?"

"You cheat... to keep it fair. Are you sure we're talking about the same thing here?"

"I believe so, sir. Oh, I take them for everything they've got, thieving twister that I am, wind them up a bit, and then when they win most of it back a bit later, they're so pleased with themselves for putting one over on old Peter that nobody ever really notices that they're all ending up not quite back where they started."

Hogan blinked. "What good does that do?"

"Well, now, sir. By definition, someone winning means that someone else, a lot of someone elses, are going to lose, and like anywhere else, we got men what could draw a natural royal flush and still lose their ruddy shirts to a bloke with a pair of treys. And we've got lads—me, sure, but I'm not the only one—who could sit there with nothing in their 'and but their fingers and bluff them out of their life savings. Even leaving skill out of it, someone's always going to lose. Leads to bad feelings, that does. Left to themselves, a few games of chance gone sour could end up starting a war of our very own 'ere in the barracks. I've seen it 'appen. The Krauts would like nothing better than a reason to make our lives even more of a living 'ell than they already are, and I'd rather not give them an excuse. So I, er, work me magic, everyone stays mostly square, and if I get a punch in the nose or a dirty look or two along the way, it's still better to 'ave all the trouble in one spot then let it spread over the whole bleeding camp."

"And you keep just enough of their money to keep your reputation as a card sharp intact."

"No, I keep just enough of their money to bribe the guards into keeping their filthy noses out of our business," Newkirk corrected. "You've 'eard the saying that silence is golden? Round 'ere it's printed, too."

"So you do make deals with the guards."

"The ones what can be bought, yes, I do. " He gave the Colonel a level look. "I'm not going to tell you I'm some sort of saint, sir. I'm not one. I'm a thief and a dodger and a card sharp and an all-round bastard, and there's not much I wouldn't stoop to if it meant keeping us all alive another day."

"Sounds to me like that makes you just the sort of man I need."

"Quite possibly," Newkirk agreed. "Which only leaves the question of whether _you're_ the sort of man _I_ need."

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Sergeant York was a WWI war hero; a wildly popular biopic was made in 1941. Unless Lange was running regular movie nights, which, somehow, I rather doubt, Newkirk would have had no opportunity to see the film, but York was famous enough that he would probably have heard of the man. Professor Moriarty, of course, was Sherlock Holmes arch-enemy, a brilliant master criminal; it's a rather back-handed compliment at best, but Hogan is really trying to make a potentially uncomfortable conversation as pleasant as possible.

As for Jamison's little SS impersonation, and the name-calling, he used a really nasty German pejorative term for an Englishman that would probably have earned him a sock in the jaw under other circumstances. Ugh.


	24. Chapter 24

Newkirk was perfectly well aware that being rude, disrespectful, and downright insubordinate was, as a general rule, frowned upon by officers. Even officers who had been asking impertinent questions. Perhaps _especially_ by officers who had been asking impertinent questions.

On the other hand, what, exactly, was left for this Yank do to him? Hogan had already asked him to stay in prison and/or get himself shot, and that had been _before_ Newkirk had mouthed off. He had nothing left to lose by speaking his mind. And, depending on Hogan's reaction, he had, potentially, everything to gain. He'd never met an officer like him before. He'd never met _anyone_ like him before. If he could be trusted, if he was for real… if he wasn't Weston all over again…

The Colonel wanted honesty, did he? Good. So did Newkirk; this conversation was, in all probability, going to be one for the books. He was going to risk everything on one roll of the dice, and hope that his long losing streak was finally at an end.

 _"I'm not going to tell you I'm some sort of saint, sir,"_ Newkirk had said. _"I'm not one. I'm a thief and a dodger and a card sharp and an all-round bastard, and there's not much I wouldn't stoop to if it meant keeping us all alive another day."_

 _"Sounds to me like that makes you just the sort of man I need,"_ the Colonel had drawled.

 _"Quite possibly,"_ Newkirk had said _. "Which only leaves the question of whether_ _ **you're**_ _the sort of man_ _ **I**_ _need."_

Hogan leaned forward, quirked a quizzical eyebrow. "I suppose it does. What's your gut telling you?"

"That you're trouble, sir, twenty-four carat trouble. You've got it in your 'ead that a bunch of beat-down, 'alf-starved prisoners can outfox the whole Third Reich, and it's all going to end with a firing squad putting in for a great deal of overtime. Not to mention wear and tear on their rifles. Sir."

"It might," Hogan conceded. "It just might. But before that happens, wouldn't you like to be a part of kicking Hitler in the nuts a time or two?"

"I'd like a lot of things. You've got a plan, then, or just 'oping that the good fairy leaves one in the garden?" Newkirk challenged. "Seeing as 'ow we 'aven't actually got much in the way of food, medicine, weapons, tools, or anything else besides the rags on our ruddy backs?"

"The rags on our backs and a radio, don't forget about that. The good fairy's based in London, and you'd be amazed at what she's going to send us. All of the above and then some."

"And in return all we 'ave to do is volunteer for suicide missions until some Kraut gets lucky? Charming."

"Appealing to your sense of patriotism isn't going to get me anywhere, is it?" Hogan sat up straight. Newkirk was being insubordinate as hell, but somehow, Hogan didn't feel attacked. If anything, it felt as though the other man was trying to help him iron out details, and flesh out his game plan. Newkirk, Hogan suspected, might not be anywhere near convinced, but he was sketching a bird's eye view of the whole operation as currently envisioned. Whether or not he could be made to believe, he wanted at least to understand. "What will?"

"Appeal to me _brain_ , sir. Leave the flash talk for the long winter evenings. Tell me what you want of me. What you want to do, 'ow you want to do it, why you think it'll work. That sort of thing."

"Escapes. Lots of them," Hogan said bluntly. Cards on the table. "I think that with a little bit of effort, and the cooperation of the local Underground, a lot of men could get back home to England and out of German hands."

That did it. If he'd been blind, deaf, and elsewhere, he might have possibly been able to miss the palpable longing that flickered across the other man's face. Maybe. Hogan remembered that he'd already been a guest of the Reich for more than two years, and he braced himself for the inevitable next question.

It didn't come. Instead, surprising him, Newkirk asked, "You mentioned the Underground like they're ready to go whenever you say the word. We weren't even sure they actually _existed_. Smugglers and black marketers are one thing, but guides out of Germany are quite another. You've already got the contacts in place, then?"

"I do," Hogan said. "Downed flyers, or escapees from other stalags, or whoever, will make their way here as best they can. From there, the plan is to set the men up with civilian clothing, maps, fake papers, money—the whole kit and caboodle. Once they're properly outfitted and ready to blend in, get them to the first link in the Underground network, and it's auf Wiedersehen to Uncle Adolf. Once they reach the coast, they get a ride back to England, probably via submarine, and from there they can get back to their units." He looked him directly in the eye. "I think that I can save a lot of lives."

Newkirk thought about that. If he signed on for this little adventure, and things went sideways, which, sooner or later, they surely would, he'd be lucky to simply be executed. If he didn't sign on, whether things went sideways or not, he'd spend the rest of his life wondering if his help might have made the difference. Besides, if the Krauts won the war, the 'rest of his life' wouldn't be worth spit anyhow. Nor anyone else's, for that matter. He owed it to everyone from the king on down to do everything he could to see to it that the right side won the war. A few little things like capture and imprisonment and near-certain torture and death hadn't changed that fundamental truth.

Escapes. A lot of them. Every man they got home was one more man standing between the Nazi hordes… and Mavis. If he had the right sort of help, the Colonel might be able to accomplish a good bit before they nabbed him and hauled him off for a nice little chat with the Gestapo and their thumbscrews. Maybe.

"And more than just the escapes," Hogan continued. "I wasn't kidding about stealing intelligence from the Kommandantur. I want information. Maps. Weapons schematics. Transcripts of Hitler and Eva's pillow talk. I don't care what it is; anything that even _looks_ valuable to the war effort, I want to steal it, copy it, and send it back to London. And I want to booby-trap every inch of railroad they've got. Blow their bridges to matchwood. I want to win this war, and I want to win it _yesterday_." His eyes blazed, a bit carried away with his own eloquence. His hands squeezed into fists. "For us, the war is _not_ over, not unless we let it be. Not yet, it's not! _Not goddamned yet!_ "

Newkirk looked at him. He was fairly sure that the colonel had been shouting down the voices in his head for at least that last little bit. Might not even have intended to say them out loud; Newkirk had been more or less an innocent bystander. They just plain rang too true to be theatrics. Too visceral. Too honest. Newkirk gave up telling himself that he was still thinking it over. He was perfectly well aware that he'd already made his decision.

He shook his head. "I've only one thing to say, sir, and I'd like it clearly understood," he said slowly.

Hogan looked at him, impassive.

Newkirk met his gaze uncompromisingly. "When they're measuring us up for the drop, I _am_ going to say 'I told you so.' Deal?"

" _Us_ , you say?" Hogan grinned, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Somehow, he was not surprised to find that the man was tense and alert as a coiled spring beneath the deceptively casual slouch. "Measuring _us_? Ha! Never happen! Have some faith, Corporal! We'll probably be shot, not hanged."

"Same condition, then. As they're tying on our blindfolds," Newkirk said, that Cheshire Cat grin licking around the corners of his mouth again. "Fair warning. I'm a right royal pain in the arse, Colonel. But if you want me, I'll be _your_ pain in the arse."

"Corporal Newkirk," Hogan said, and he meant it, "That's a noble offer, and I'm deeply honored. Welcome back to the war."

"Thank you, sir. Guess we'll 'ave to see which one of us regrets it first."

Hogan smirked. "I guess we will. But, Newkirk… why? You can't tell me that five minutes of my sales pitch made you change your mind. You're not that easy to snow. And I've seen your record. You've got more escape attempts under your belt than they had paper to write them down on. Are you just angling for a way out of here? If you are, I'd rather you said so up front, and we could work things out from there."

"No, sir. To all of it. No, not just a dodge, and no, not just five minutes. And no, sir—I'm _not_ that easy to snow, and thank you for noticing. But I've been watching you since you walked into me cell; I think you're on the level. I think you can do what you think you can do. If you can, it's something I want in on. If you can't, well, I'm already on borrowed time, and I've never _actually_ expected to walk out of 'ere. What've I got to lose?"

"You know the answer to that as well as I do," Hogan said grimly. "As things stand right now, you're comparatively safe. This place isn't exactly the Ritz by any stretch of the imagination, but if you keep playing it smart, there's a pretty good chance you'd make it home. Whereas if you join my crew…"

"If I join up, when I get caught, the Gestapo thugs take me into _their_ back room. And a week or three later, they prop whatever's left of me up against the wall and pot themselves a corporal. I know, sir."

Hogan grimaced. "...Eloquently put. So you're _not_ just trying to bargain for a ride home."

"No. I'm not dickering with you, sir; I wouldn't. And I can't. I've nothing to bargain with," Newkirk replied. "Yes, I ruddy well want out of this pit. I'd be barmy not to. I want it like I want me next breath… and no one's offering me _that,_ either. Least of all you, sir. At most, you're offering me the chance to 'elp a lot of other people get theirs."

Hogan nodded slowly. It was true.

"You need a thief. Very well, then. You'll still need one in a month, or a year, or 'owever long this sodding war lasts, so if I take the job, it's for the duration—I'd be the last person you'd send 'ome. If I tell you to pound sand, I don't _deserve_ any favors… and so I'd be the last person you'd send 'ome. One way or the other, I'm not leaving Germany anytime soon. Might as well do something to pass the time."

Hogan considered that, shook his head. "That's a really crummy reason to get involved with an operation like mine. I don't want you here if you're feeling cornered, or maneuvered into it. And I definitely don't want you here if all you can do is shrug and say 'why not.' I'll admit your skill set would come in real handy. But that attitude isn't good enough by a long shot. We're talking about the fate of the whole world here!"

"No," Newkirk corrected. "We're not. We're talking about the fate of a 'ell of a lot more than that!" He jerked his head towards the tunnel entrance. "You saw our tunnel. We were 'oping that fifteen, maybe twenty men could make it out of 'ere. Way I see it, that means we were working to save fifteen, maybe twenty whole worlds. You're talking about saving, what, a 'undred? A thousand? More? That's a thousand good reasons right there."

"You weren't digging that gopher hole for purely altruistic reasons, though, were you?" Hogan asked. "You were going to be one of that fifteen or twenty, right?"

Newkirk looked briefly away. "That wasn't decided yet," he said. "Maybe, maybe not. There were… a few details that needed tending before we settled the final roster."

Hogan frowned. There was more there to unpack. "Going by length of stay rather than rank, you had seniority. And according to the others, you were working like a Trojan. Your name should have been on the list."

"And it might 'ave been. But there were a lot of blokes jockeying for a very few tickets out of Krautland. The chaps what went 'ad to be the ones likeliest to make it out clean, or there was no point. And the ones who stayed 'ad to be the ones who could get the next escape rolling."

"And you figured that would be you, huh? So you were figuring to set up your own version of my operation even before I came?"

"I don't think I'd've put it quite like that," Newkirk said. Not even remotely like that. He thought about Lange, about how he would react to an escape, and suppressed a shiver. Oh, to hell with it. It was far too late to start worrying about disclosing too much. "I've got… something of a reputation with the Kommandant. Chances were that me main role in the escape would've been playing fox to give the others a chance to get away." Fox hunts were still quite popular in certain exalted circles, back home, for reasons that probably made a lot of sense to the hunters. The hounds always seemed to enjoy them, too. The fox didn't tend to have a good time of it.

Hogan's eyes widened a bit. "And you were _okay_ with that?"

"Not by a long chalk. But if that's 'ow things are, it's 'ow they are. So it's not a matter of getting away or staying 'ere. It's a matter of risking me neck for fifteen, or risking it for a 'undred. I'd much prefer the latter, if it's all the same to you, Colonel. And I also think you've a better chance at pulling off your plans for the 'undred than we did for the fifteen. Which means better odds for me. And even if it _does_ all go pear-shaped, better to fail trying something big than fail trying something small."

"Huh. Do you always figure things out from three different directions before you make a decision?"

"Don't you? Me, I've never been in a situation where I could afford to do different. I could suss out all the angles, or I could end up dead. In your line of work—beg pardon, sir; _our_ line of work—seems to me that the same rule would apply."

"You're right. But just to be clear, that doesn't mean that when I give an order, you get to mull it over and decide whether or not you want to obey it, all right?"

His lips tightened, obviously a bit offended that Hogan thought that he needed the warning. He flicked a finger at the stripes on his sleeve. "I've got a pair of jacks," he said, then nodded at the eagle on Hogan's collar. "You've at least an ace-'igh straight. I know 'ow the army works, sir."

"I know you do. I wouldn't have asked you to be a part of this if I thought otherwise," Hogan said. "But so long as we were putting all our cards on the table, it seemed like a good idea to get all of the insulting questions out of the way at once. Oh, wait. One more question. You've been here a while. **Sprechen Sie Deutsch**?"

"I've picked up a few words, sir. The important ones, anyhow. ' **Achtung** ,' and ' **hande hoch** ,' and ' **verboten** ,' and the like." He pretended to think about it. "I can say 'On your knees, you filthy English pig-fucker, and if you move so much as a muscle I'll blow your goddamned 'ead off,' if you want. Learned _that_ one the day I was captured."

"I'll pass, thanks anyway," Hogan said, a bit disappointed. "I'm going to start everyone on German 101 tomorrow; it will be a lot easier to work if we can blend in, and it will be a lot easier to blend in if we speak the language."

Newkirk nodded. " **Yes, that's a good idea, Herr Oberst** ," he said. " **I can get some German books from the guards' quarters, if you'd like. There's got to be at least a copy or two of 'Mein Kampf' lying about.** "

" **That would be helpful—** " Hogan cut himself off, suddenly noticing that they were no longer speaking English. He lifted an ironic eyebrow. "A few words, huh?"

"The important ones," Newkirk repeated, smiling. "Truth be told, I would be grateful for some 'elp expanding me vocabulary; none of the guards what I learned from are exactly Oxford material, if you get me drift. Kinch is better than I am, but don't tell 'im I said so. LeBeau understands it well enough, but can't quite seem to shake 'is accent when 'e speaks. Richmond's got a decent accent on the few words 'e knows, but 'is vocabulary is spotty at best and 'is grammar is worse. Forrest reads it like a native, and 'e's got the accent down pat, but 'as trouble understanding what 'e 'ears."

"Okay. Your German accent is good."

"Yeah. I can do just about any accent I hear, sir, if I've a chance to listen to it for a bit," Newkirk said, in a dead-on imitation of Hogan, including his intonations and delivery. "That includes a couple of different German dialects, courtesy of a couple of different guards."

"You're just full of surprises this morning," Hogan said, pleased. "This is going to be one hell of a roller coaster ride, I can just tell."

Newkirk grinned again. "I do me best, sir. Wouldn't want the war to get boring, now would we? And there's only so many games of solitaire a bloke can play before going 'round the bend."

Hogan grinned. "Oh, that's where you're wrong. I play games all the time. And I'm going to _keep_ playing until the Nazis are slinking away from the table with their tails between their legs. Don't you like games?"

Newkirk's eyes glittered. He bridged the deck of cards that was still lying on the table, gave them a quick shuffle, and cut the deck into four piles. He flipped over the top card of each stack to reveal the four aces. "Only the ones I can win, sir. Only the ones I can win."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: In the 'do you speak German' bit, I desperately wanted to borrow a bit of shtick from the film 'Stalag 17.' One of the prisoners, ribbing the guard, (named Schultz, as it happens,) calls out 'Sprechen Sie Deutsch?' And, as the guard nods yes, the prisoner retorts, 'Then droppen Sie dead!' Great film, but it wasn't written until the '50s, so no dice. Alas. It is, however, interesting to imagine the Heroes going to see the film, nearly a decade after the war… all about a daring escape from a POW camp, complete with spies and informers and double-dealing and a shifty con artist stage-managing the whole thing… would they laugh? Or cry?


	25. Chapter 25

Tunneling under the quasi-expert direction of the two miners was no more enjoyable than doing so on the proverbial wing and a prayer, but it _did_ prove to be a lot less exciting. Paradoxically enough, a camp full of men who complained more or less continually about boredom, and who had gone to some rather impressive lengths to attempt to alleviate said boredom, were openly grateful for hours spent uneventfully shifting dirt. If 'uneventful' translated to 'ceilings that stay where we left them,' the men seemed to agree, then bring on the monotony.

(This did not mean that creative measures to combat cabin fever slowed by so much as a fraction. One rainy Thursday, for lack of anything more interesting to do, they'd had arm-wrestling contests. No one ever quite remembered how the time-honored pastime had morphed into a team sport on that particular day, but Hogan's expression, as he entered the main room just as Newkirk, Kinch, and LeBeau, their arms entwined like vines on a beanpole, were disposing of Foxton, Richmond, and MacDonald, had been priceless. His expression a few minutes later as he, paired with Forrest and Sam, had been effortlessly walloped by the still undefeated Terrible Trio had been even more so. The expressions of everyone else in the barracks, as Hogan pleasantly congratulated the winners and then saddled them with KP duty for a week, had been the best of all.)

Much of the original tunnel had, to the pleasure of all involved, been salvageable. This had involved, to the displeasure of everyone in camp, a great deal of reinforcement and re-propping. It was warm enough outside that firewood was no longer quite so jealously hoarded, which was to say that a tunneler trying to make off with the sturdiest pieces would _probably_ not be torn limb from limb, pun very much intended, but he wouldn't be making himself particularly popular, either. LeBeau wasn't the only one who used the barracks stoves to commit acts of cuisine, just the most skilled.

And the men who discovered, often the hard way, that most of the slats had been removed from their bunks to further reinforce the tunnel, had contributed a few colorful expressions and suggestions that the thieves should cultivate the ability to sleep with one eye open, but those were, for the most part, taken neither personally or seriously.

Hogan did his fair share of digging. It seemed to him that he would gain more in credibility than he would lose in authority— or aching muscles— by doing so, at least for the present; right now, he very much needed the men to see him, not merely as someone who dispensed orders, but as someone trustworthy, someone who shared their troubles and travails. That went for the men he was hoping to retain as well as the ones he intended to ship out.

That evening, as it happened, he was working with Newkirk. The tunnel had expanded a bit; it was now large enough that a man could sit up to work, if he ducked his head a little, rather than lying flat on his stomach. It still wasn't exactly a luxury model, but it was better than it had been.

They'd been chipping away at the hard ground for more than two hours, and they were running out of energy, good humor, camaraderie, candles, and conversation, more or less simultaneously. A minor dirtfall didn't help matters any.

"Your uniform has certainly seen better days," Hogan said with a frown, as they dusted themselves off and spat out mouthfuls of mud. Well, actually, that wasn't the _first_ thing he said after the dirtfall, but it was the first thing he said that is at all relevant to the story. It was also the first thing that wouldn't have gotten his mouth washed out with soap. One often overlooked benefit to becoming fluent in a second language is the expanded vocabulary of profanities. "It's supposed to be blue, isn't it?"

Newkirk looked down at his ragged, threadbare jacket as if he were seeing it for the first time. The dim, flickering candlelight did it no favors, but even so, there was no denying that it had, in fact, faded badly after two and a half years of nearly constant wear. "Yes, sir," he said. "It used to be. But, then, after a couple of years in our little corner of paradise, Guv'ner, you'll probably be a bit gray yourself."

Hogan grinned. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said easily. "Anyhow, I plan to complain to the Red Cross. We should be able to get them to send you something better to wear in fairly short order."

He shrugged wryly. "I'm 'ardly the worst off for warm clothes, sir," he said. "There are a lot of men in far direr straits."

"That's definitely true. Half the camp is wandering around in getups I wouldn't use for cleaning rags. I meant that the Red Cross was going to have to resupply _all_ of you. Plural."

Newkirk sighed. "Not too bloody likely, if you'll pardon my saying, sir. The post office isn't any too reliable in 'ere. Stuff the Red Cross sends 'as got this odd tendency to get lost in the mail. And no good trying to get it from London, either. Radios and things we can 'ide are one thing. Stuff the Krauts are going to see, like our uniforms, are another. The ladies of 'Ammelberg would be showing off their new khaki dirndls by Tuesday."

"We'll see about that," Hogan said. "We have the right to receive mail, and supplies from the Red Cross, too."

Newkirk had an unparalleled ability to convey the _sense_ of a disbelieving snort while maintaining a poker face that would do credit to an actual statue, Hogan thought. He still found the Englishman, with his quicksilver moods and pretzel logic, hard to read. Newkirk had offered his services; Hogan had accepted. That much was clear. But it was plain that, while Newkirk was willing to gamble on Hogan's ability to outfox the Germans, there was still a reservoir of pessimistic cynicism in there, one that long predated not merely Hogan's introduction to the camp but, in all probability, Newkirk's own, as well. He was willing to stake his life, but that had to be at least partially because he already seemed to consider it as good as lost. That was entirely unsatisfactory, and on more levels than one.

Hogan turned the question over and over in his head, worrying at it like a dog with a bone as they hacked at the hard-packed soil. How did one go about convincing a man who had spent so many years getting the short end of the stick that he no longer believed that the long end even existed?

After a while, he glanced at his watch. Quarter to four; roll call was at six. "Okay, I'm bushed. I think that's enough for one night. Head up topsides; let's all get some sleep."

"Right you are, Guv'ner," Newkirk said cheerfully, putting down his shovel with no reluctance whatsoever.

Hogan rolled his eyes, suddenly irritated. It had been a very long day. "For crying out loud. Would you knock it off with the 'Guv'ner' bit? You sound like the Artful Dodger."

Newkirk recoiled. Stiffly, his diction crisp, he said, "I see, sir. My apologies, sir."

"Look, I realize that this isn't exactly the usual sort of military situation, and I'm giving you fellows a long leash, but I do think I'm owed the courtesy of _some_ basic respect from my men."

"Basic respect?! _Basic bl…_ " He caught himself midword, and snapped to attention as best he could, hunkered down as he was to fit in the tunnel. "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Won't happen again, sir. I give you my word on that. Sir."

"Thank you, Newkirk. Why were you calling me that in the first place?"

He didn't relax his posture a hair, nor did his enunciation falter, but his expression shifted, and there was a challenge in his eyes. "Well, sir. Permission to explain in a somewhat roundabout fashion?"

Hogan's own eyes narrowed. "Go ahead."

"Taking you as an example, you're called 'Hogan' because your dad was, and you're called 'Robert' because your mum said so. Perhaps your mates called you 'Rob.' I imagine your lady friends called you 'darling' or the like. Those are names. Easily given, and easily changed, and it's not my place to use any of them." He took a breath. "Now, you're my CO because London said so, and you're 'Colonel' because your Army decided you were worth promoting. That could mean anything or nothing; I've no way of knowing by sight."

"You've made no secret of your opinions of officers," Hogan said coldly.

"No. I suppose I haven't. I've met my share of fellows with rows of bright colored ribbons on their breast pockets and hearts like coal underneath them. But there it is, sir. I can call you 'Colonel' because you're sporting that shiny eagle pin on your collar. I can call you 'sir' because all officers like it better when I do. Or maybe I can call you 'Guv'ner' because _I_ think you're worth following. Those are all titles, sir. Not names. Names are given. Titles have to be earned." He saluted, crisp and correct. Even covered head to toe in sweat-matted dirt, he was suddenly every inch the perfect soldier. "Permission to return to the barracks, Colonel Hogan, sir?"

Hogan nodded. "Permission granted," he said carefully, and watched Newkirk crawl back along the newly excavated section of tunnel. He waited until the other man was well out of sight before slapping a hand to his forehead, frustrated with himself. One step forward, two steps back; he was uncomfortably aware that he'd just shot himself in the foot, and being exhausted and sore was no excuse. Rebuilding the trust he'd just blown sky-high could take weeks, and that was time he simply didn't have to waste.

Not to mention the fact that the mercurial old-timer was firmly ensconced in the beating heart of the stalag; he knew everyone, everyone knew him, he knew where all the metaphorical bodies were buried, and everyone owed him a favor or six. If he chose to make any public display of disillusionment with the Colonel and his grandiose, if admittedly unorthodox, plans, Hogan might find himself out of favor not merely with Newkirk, but with half the camp.

OoOoOoOoO

The next day was rainy. Torrentially rainy. 'I just saw an old man leading pairs of animals into a big boat' rainy. Naturally, Lange took the opportunity to call a special formation, which he oversaw from the safe shelter of the porch of the Kommandantur. This had the advantage of annoying, not merely the prisoners, who considered most things Lange did, including continuing to breathe, to be a provocation and an irritant, but the guards, who were forced to trudge through the ankle-deep mud counting them.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," grumbled a lanky newcomer, shifting his feet slightly. They squelched, but he had been captured recently enough that the boots were still in fairly good, nonleaky, condition. He didn't yet know to appreciate that while it lasted, but then he'd only been in camp for about twenty-seven hours. There was time. "There's got to be something in the Geneva Convention about that."

"Forget it," Newkirk muttered back. "Cruel, yes. Unusual, no. Pipe down."

"They can't _do_ this to us!"

"News to them. Now shut up!"

"We've got rights!"

"Do you _want_ the goons to break your nose?"

"No, but—!"

"Do you want _me_ to?"

"Take it easy, soldier," Hogan cut in, as the guard let loose a torrent of angry German that boiled down to a forceful request for silence.

Newkirk shrugged acquiescence. The young sergeant hunched his shoulders under the reprimand, not quite sure which of them was the 'soldier' in question, but obediently falling silent until they were finally dismissed to the dubious shelter of the barracks.

"All right, lads," Forrest said, with a rueful look at the ceiling. "Bucket patrol; you know the drill."

The newcomer, who, in fact, had no idea what he was talking about, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to get in anyone's way (with about as much success as anyone ever has in such a situation,) as bowls, buckets, and LeBeau's stewpot were placed, with mathematical exactitude, beneath the various leaks.

Newkirk walked over to the newcomer and casually wrung out his cap into the stewpot, eliciting an indignant yelp from LeBeau, which he ignored. "Right, then," he said. "Olsen, wasn't it?"

LeBeau watched the young American spend a frantic five seconds trying to decide whether or not admitting it would be a good idea. "Er, yes?"

He gave him a lazy smile, and slung a comradely arm over the other man's shoulder. "Good. First thing you want to do is learn a bit about the guards. Schultzie's one thing. You could get away with mouthing off to 'im. But Schmidt, the one who was counting us just now, really would punch you in the nose for making a fuss. And you can just thank your lucky stars it wasn't Schwartz on duty today, or you'd still be on your 'ands and knees out there, looking for your teeth."

Olsen opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Um… thanks. Which one is… ah, what'd you call him? Schultzie?"

"Schultz you cannot mistake," LeBeau said. "He is the one who looks like an overinflated zeppelin wearing a gravy boat on his head."

That surprised a laugh out of Olsen. "Okay, I'll remember that."

"Do so. We will point out the other guards as they come, and you will soon learn which ones not to provoke," LeBeau encouraged, with a sour look into his stewpot, which already had an inch of water at the bottom. "I hope no one was expecting much for dinner tonight."

"You mean _besides_ the usual 'eartburn, right?" Newkirk gave Olsen a final pat on the back, and turned his attention to the Frenchman.

" _I will give you something much worse than heartburn, you Philistine,_ " LeBeau growled.

"You already do, Louie, you already do."

As that little discussion hurtled towards its inevitable conclusion, Olsen backed slowly away, nonplussed. No one else in the barracks was paying any attention whatsoever to what sounded like the prelude to a homicide, or, for that matter, to one puzzled greenhorn, and he thought he might do better to keep it that way. He still wasn't sure how much trouble he might be in as regarded his performance at roll call.

He backed up a step, than another, then turned to climb into his bunk, and found himself face-to-face with his commanding officer.

"Urk," he said coherently.

"At ease, Sergeant," Hogan said pleasantly. "Olsen, right? I've been meaning to welcome you to scenic Stalag 13."

"Er, thank you, sir," Olsen said. "And, sir, I'm really sorry about before. At the formation. I didn't mean to make trouble, sir; I didn't think…"

"Trouble, huh? Well, trouble aimed in the right direction is no trouble at all," Hogan said with a smile.

There was probably something about this bunk, or possibly this camp, that drove people nutty, Olsen thought. He hadn't met a sane POW yet, and it did not fill him with confidence as to his future prospects. Musing on that unappetizing thought, he completely failed to notice an exchange of meaningful glances—Hogan to Newkirk, LeBeau to Forrest, Forrest to Hogan—but the widening grin on the Colonel's face was hard to miss. "In fact, Olsen, sometimes trouble—if correctly applied, of course—is a real help. We'll talk more some other time, maybe."

Later that afternoon, Hogan got a few more details. "'E was clean, sir," Newkirk said. "Nothing in 'is pockets but lint. Not even the usual beat-up photo of the girl back 'ome. I wasn't exactly expecting an Iron Cross and a code book, but even for a POW that's pretty sparse equipment."

"His uniform looked correct," LeBeau added. "Of course, if he is a spy, he could have stolen it easily enough."

"And 'e looked as though 'e understood when Schmidt was bawling us out, sir," Newkirk said, seriously. "Not just the shouting; 'e looked like 'e understood the _words_."

"Well, if that isn't very suspicious, it could be very useful," Hogan said. "But just in case it's the former, we'll keep an eye on him for a few days. He goes nowhere alone until I say the word, and no one is to mention tunnels in front of the new guy, all right?"

"We'll see to it, Colonel," Forrest promised.

Newkirk met his eye and nodded crisply. Not actually saluting, but not all that far off, either. "Yes, sir. 'E's got 'imself a couple of new best mates, Colonel."

"Good. Keep me posted," Hogan said, nodding a dismissal.

Tunnel construction was being delayed _again_ until they vetted the new guy, who might or might not be a plant, the trick bottom of the footlocker in which they were storing the radio until such time as they were able to create a permanent installation was so utterly insecure that it was giving Hogan nightmares, he still didn't know which—if any—of the other men were going to volunteer to stay, there was a new leak directly over his desk, and Newkirk's careful courtesy was making Hogan's teeth itch.

Some good news right about now would not, he thought, come amiss.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The wisecrack about the likelihood of Hogan finding himself going a bit gray was demonstrably true. The last season or so saw the good Colonel's hair silvering around the edges somewhat, but I suppose when the show lasts longer than the actual war, these things happen. Dr. Hawkeye Pierce could sympathize.

Sergeant Olsen, the 'outside man,' must, I assume, have spoken fluent German. All the characters' proficiency in the language seems to have been sort of mutable; they spoke exactly enough German to suit any given storyline. Oy.

Hogan's still having a few growing pains. Commanding a bomber squadron is nice, of course, but I do suspect that it isn't the best possible preparation for commanding an intelligence unit, especially not one filled with wire-happy paranoiacs. But he's trying, the poor guy, he's trying.


	26. Chapter 26

The rain didn't let up for another two days, and it didn't do much for anyone's mood. It was no novelty for Newkirk and LeBeau to argue, either amongst themselves or with the other denizens of the barracks, and for the most part the others were able to tune it out. When Forrest began to snap at Richmond, though, it was far more unusual, and when Kinch the levelheaded picked a fight with Foxton the unassuming, several of the men wanted to submit the incident to Ripley's Believe it or Not.

The new guy, Olsen, continued to be new. Which is to say that he stumbled around, breaking unwritten rules, getting in everyone's way and on everyone's nerves, doing his very best to pretend that he wasn't scared, and not fooling anyone for a minute.

Something went wrong with the stove, or more precisely the stovepipe; it began belching clouds of black unpleasantness into the room, thickly enough that they could—and did—play naughts and crosses in the soot coating the tabletop. They had no alternative but to leave the stove unlit unless and until they were given the tools and the permission to dismantle and repair it; soot was messy and irritating, but carbon monoxide could easily kill them all. So there was definitely no cooking being done, and even their coffeepot was empty and cold.

No coffee. Even the wretched ersatz coffee they could scrounge, of which the best that could be said was that it was marginally better than nothing, was the lifeblood of the barracks. Richmond always said that the muddy stuff was unmistakably 'fresh ground' in more ways than one, but, his justifiable complaints notwithstanding, he drank as much of it as anyone else. The coffeepot was in constant use; they drank it to wake up in the mornings, to warm up during the day, to relax in the evenings, and to feel normal at any time. If they were frightened, lonely, happy, bored, sad, contemplative, angry, or sick, they drank coffee. It was a lot to ask from bitter brown water. But it was all they had. And now they didn't even have that.

More than a few of the men had been heard to wonder if living without coffee—and, worse, living _with_ a Cockney in the throes of caffeine withdrawal—was better or worse than quietly suffocating. Hawkins made a comment or two about the virtues of splitting the difference and strangling the Cockney; it did not improve the atmosphere in the barracks.

LeBeau resented the forced inactivity; it was leaving him far too much time to think about Hogan's proposal. There hadn't been a single element in it he liked. Stay in prison? Send other men back to the fight while he lingered behind? How could he bear to do that? He did not want to be here; he was needed in France. She needed her loyal sons to protect her, preserve her. She needed them all. She needed him.

Hogan's plans were quite literally unbelievable. Impossible. They would require a battalion of specially trained agents, to say nothing of the personal intervention of every angel in heaven. They couldn't possibly work. Which was a shame. They would have been glorious.

If they could be _made_ to work, they would _be_ glorious.

France very much needed glorious plans like the colonel's.

But he was no spy, no intelligence agent. He was a chef who had been assigned to a bomber and trained to use a gun. If he stayed here, what could he possibly expect to do? Bake secret messages into a tray of petit fours? He would be useless. He liked that least of all.

Newkirk was shuffling his battered deck of cards; LeBeau sat glumly down across from him. Newkirk bridged the deck, let the cards hiss neatly into a stack. "Gin? Or poker?" he asked. "You look like you could use a distraction from whatever it is you're fretting about."

"I could," LeBeau agreed. "But not cards."

"Fair enough," Newkirk said amiably, and set the deck aside. "What's eating you, mate?"

"A great many bugs," LeBeau said bitterly, scratching at that terrible spot between his shoulder blades, the one that nobody can ever quite reach for themselves.

"We _are_ about due for another delousing," Newkirk said meditatively, and scratched his own shoulder, because it is not physically possible to see someone else itching without feeling one's own skin start to crawl. "Always good for a laugh, that is."

LeBeau made an untranscribable but unmistakably grumpy sound. " _Ah, ciel,_ I can't wait."

"Now, now, mustn't grumble; what we lose in dignity we gain in chemical burns," Newkirk said mock-soothingly.

"Very funny," LeBeau said. Stalag 13 had already cost him more of his dignity than he liked to think about. "Pierre… have you thought about what _le colonel_ said? About… staying?"

"Not an easy thing to forget, is it?" Newkirk evaded the question. "That what's got you all in a lather, then?"

" _Oui._ I do not know what I want to do, or what would be best to do. I would be only too happy if I thought I could help him sabotage the _Boche_ , but I do not see exactly how I could," LeBeau said.

"What a chap would like doesn't often 'ave much to do with what _is_ , far as I've ever seen," Newkirk said. "The Colonel was talking about setting up an escape. If 'e's offering one, I think you should take the ticket out of 'ere."

LeBeau blinked. That had certainly been definite enough. "You think so? You think _le colonel's_ plans will not work?"

"Didn't say that. Who can tell, really? I'll go so far as to say that, from what I've seen of the man, if anyone _could_ run a game on the Krauts from inside the wire, it would be our lad 'Ogan. But I'll tell you what I told 'im; soon or late, it'll all end in 'emp."

"You didn't! I don't believe you would actually… no. I _do_ believe you would say such a thing to an officer," LeBeau said. " _Mon Dieu._ What did he say to that?"

Newkirk snorted. "Told me to 'ave some faith, and that we were far more likely to be shot than 'anged. Reassuring, what? Didn't get angry, if that's what you're really asking."

"You always have better luck than you deserve. Most officers would have been very annoyed," LeBeau said, amused.

"That's me. Lady Luck's favorite son," Newkirk said. "But that's neither 'ere nor there. Do you really want to stay in this pesthole and wait for the SS to catch up with you? Wouldn't you rather go back to the real world and rejoin your unit?"

LeBeau sighed. "Of course I want to get out of here. I want to smash the Boche in any way I can. That's the problem, _n'est ce pas?_ Where would I be most valuable? As an airman in a bomber, or a chef in a spy ring?"

"You're a clever one; you'd be an asset wherever you went," Newkirk said. "But I'm telling you, mate—go 'ome. Go be an asset someplace where they feed you regular and don't use barbed wire for wall art."

"Perhaps you are right," LeBeau said, not without regret. "I will not miss stale bread and sauerkraut, I can say that much."

"Can't imagine you'll 'ave any fond memories of the delousing station, either. To say nothing of roll call in the rain, icy showers in January, lumpy mattresses year-round, or the cooler," Newkirk said with a quirked eyebrow. "Not exactly the sort of thing they make picture postcards of."

Perhaps there were no postcards, but he had found at least one thing of surpassing value in the cooler, LeBeau thought sentimentally, thinking of language lessons shouted through a cement wall. "No. There are a great many things I would like to forget about this place. But there are also many things I will always remember."

"A good psychologist should be able to clear that up for you," Newkirk said. "Come off it! A glass or two of wine, a couple of croissants, a pretty mademoiselle, and this rattrap will never cross your mind again. And good riddance to bad memories."

"I suppose you will be going home as well? Warm beer, fish and chips, and a sweet English rose?"

Right; this was going to be the tricky bit. He could already tell that this was not going to go over well. "No, worse luck," he said. "I'm not going to escape, Louie. I'm staying 'ere."

LeBeau stared at him. " _Are you completely insane? Why in the name of everything holy would you want to stay here? You just finished telling me all the reasons that we should go!"_

"English, mate. Speak English. It's not that I _want_ to stay, exactly. I 'ate this place; you know that better than anyone. I just think it would be better all around if I did."

LeBeau took a deep breath, but before he could demolish that argument, Newkirk held up a hand. "Wait, Louie. 'Ear me out. It's… say I did get out. Say we all made it back. What then? I'd retrain for a few weeks and go back to dropping bombs on the Krauts, right?"

"And you do not want to return to the fight?" LeBeau genuinely could not comprehend such an attitude. Especially not from Newkirk. "You do not want to give the _Boche_ what they have coming to them?"

"That's just it, mate; of course I do," Newkirk said. "But what I could do in the air… it was good work, don't get me wrong, but the RAF's got no shortage of men what could do the same or better. Colonel 'Ogan, now—where is 'e going to find someone else with the sort of talents I've got?"

There was, for once, no braggadocio in his voice. He was an inordinately skillful thief, and he knew it. It was simply a fact, as much a part of him as his eyes or his accent. He wasn't ashamed of it. Theft, when considered as a career path, offered very little by way of long-term stability, (almost as little as espionage, come to think of it,) but he had not exactly been overwhelmed with better opportunities. It might not have been legal, or moral, or particularly smart, or a good way to reach old age, but he had done the best he could with what he had, and he considered that he'd done it for the right reasons. He had no apologies to offer.

Nonetheless, if there was some sort of angelic copper looking over his admittedly extensive charge sheet, an idea he didn't really believe but couldn't quite dismiss out of hand, there was no guarantee that the divine magistrate could be made to see things that way. The Eighth Commandment just didn't have a whole lot of wiggle room. The war, though… he wasn't sure of much, but he had no doubt that saving the world from the goose-steppers counted as a good thing. This was probably his one chance to balance the scales, at least a little bit, and he owed it to himself to take it.

And, leaving self-interest out of it, there was the other side of it, too. Hogan wanted a thief to accomplish the sort of things he claimed he'd been sent there to do. The stakes being what they were, he needed the best he could get, and, false modesty be damned, unless and until a better candidate presented himself, that was Newkirk. One could easily make the argument that he owed it to the entire free world to be Hogan's thief.

"So you are trying to get me out of the way before you begin? Is this your tactful way of saying that you think I would be useless?" LeBeau wasn't sure if he was angry, hurt, or something even darker.

"More like a tactful way of trying to get you to safety before you end up kicking the wind alongside us," Newkirk snapped back. "Sorry if that offends you. Oh, wait. No, I'm not."

"I am not a child! I do not need you protecting me like one!"

"If you're not a child, then leave off the ruddy temper tantrums! Look, mate—you asked me a question, and I told you the truth. This is a suicide mission. I'm gambling that I can do more good in 'owever many weeks we might 'ave before they catch us than I could in 'owever long I might last in whatever plane I'm reassigned to. I wasn't much of a loss to the RAF, I just might be an asset to the Colonel, and it's pretty much a bleeding coin flip either way! If you want to get stroppy about it, go do it somewhere else. Like London; it's nice this time of year."

The problem, LeBeau thought, was that Newkirk divided the world into two types of people. There were the ones he took care of, and there were the ones who wanted to hurt him. The categories were not mutually exclusive; they could and did overlap, but there was no third option. He forced his voice into a calmer register, and shunted the conversation in a slightly different direction. "Have you spoken with any of the others about this?"

"Not really. Overheard a few bits and pieces. I'm pretty sure that Richmond wants no part of anything that means staying 'ere. Forrest's a bit unhappy about where the whole idea stands in regard to the Geneva Convention. Foxton just wants to get back to digging so we can get on with leaving. Kinch is bent on making that radio work; I don't know what 'e wants to do once that's sorted."

"And if any of them were to ask you for your opinion…?"

"…I'd tell them the same thing I told you. Go 'ome. This isn't the sort of thing you get two tries to master, and Forrest isn't wrong about the Geneva Convention. What the Colonel wants to do will strip us of whatever rights we 'ad left."

"If you are so certain that this is a bad idea, why are you staying?"

"I told you. I think I'd be of more use to the Colonel than the RAF. It really isn't any more complicated than that."

"Ah, how very heroic. _Vive la liberte_ , eh?" LeBeau's raised eyebrow spoke volumes; it was a great deal more complicated than that, and he knew it, and Newkirk knew that he knew it.

There was never any use arguing with that eyebrow. Newkirk sighed, gave in. "Look, Louie. I'm willing to take the gamble. I 'ave the right curriculum vitae, and I _don't_ 'ave anything much left to lose."

"Nothing to lose? What of your family? Your sister?"

"As for Mavis, she's probably dead," Newkirk said bluntly. "We lived in Stepney. Which, for the most part, isn't there anymore. A lot can 'appen in the better part of three years."

LeBeau frowned. "Dramatics again. You do not know that she is not perfectly fine. If we were given our mail, there is every chance you would hear as much."

"And if I 'ad wheels, there's every chance I'd be a jeep and could take you all for a spin. Enough with the maybes and might'ves, Louie. There's work for me to do in this pit. I'm going to do it. If 'Ogan's willing to offer you your freedom, mate, for God's sake, _take it_ , and go find work for yourself back in the real world."

LeBeau wondered, not for the first time, if Newkirk genuinely didn't realize that other people were capable of compassion, or, as seemed more likely, if he was simply unable to understand that anyone could ever care about _him_. "And if it were not maybes? If you knew she was at home waiting and worrying about you? What then, _mon vieux,_ what then?"

"Then every day I can shorten this sodding war is one less day she's got to worry." He shrugged. "Louie, what do you want from me? There's never going to be a better chance for me to be a real part of ending this war. Never."

"Perhaps not," LeBeau said. "What _le Colonel_ is describing… it could make all the difference. It could." He paused. The choice on the tip of his tongue, he vaguely understood, had been made a long time ago, but this was the first time he was going to speak it aloud, let it become irrevocable. "That is why I am staying, too. I may not have your gift for locked doors, but I can learn. We are still _les Mousquetaires, oui?_ All for one, one for all. Except that now 'all' is bigger than one barracks, bigger than one camp. Bigger than even just _la Belle France_. If we can shorten this war by even a day, it will be worth whatever else may happen to us."

Newkirk looked at him, then shook his head. "We're both 'round the bend, aren't we?"

LeBeau laughed; counterintuitively enough, with the decision made, it felt as though a weight had suddenly lifted from his shoulders. "We have been for a very long time, _mon pote_. A very, very long time!"

Newkirk grinned. This hadn't worked out at all like he'd planned, and in a way he was sorry for that. He had wanted LeBeau to go, to be safe and free and elsewhere. He had wanted that for LeBeau's sake. For his own… he was shamefully grateful that the best friend he had ever had or hoped for would still be at his side. "Truer words. Mad as 'atters, the both of us. We just won't tell anyone."

"Not even _le Colonel,_ eh?"

" _Especially_ not 'im. We won't 'ave to; volunteering for this merry band is proof enough of it. Besides. Who came up with the idea in the first place? 'E's madder than both of us put together!"


	27. Chapter 27

Later that evening, a couple of men were sitting around the table playing cards for matchsticks. Olsen had a respectable pile in front of him, which meant that Newkirk was either running some sort of angle or losing his touch. Kinch wandered over to the table anyway.

"What are the stakes?" he asked mildly, watching LeBeau fold a busted straight. Forrest's cards were already face down on the table.

"Why, Sergeant Kinchloe, I'm surprised at you," Newkirk said mock-reproachfully. "This 'ere's a friendly game, it is. You know as well as I do that playing for money is—what is it, lads?"

" **Verboten!** " said Richmond, LeBeau, and Forrest in singsong unison.

"Quite right. And anyone caught gambling in clear defiance of the rules will get…?"

" **Thirty days in the cooler!** " the chorus answered, still in German.

"You're right! _Now_ I remember. How silly of me," Kinch said, sitting down. "So what's the buy-in?"

Newkirk tsked. "Shame on you, setting a bad example for our young friend here. **Now Olsen, don't you go letting Kinch lead you into mischief. Verstehen Sie?** "

" **Yeah, I understand, thanks** ," Olsen said, studying his cards one last time. Shaking his head, he folded, leaving Newkirk to sweep the matches into his own pot.

Forrest dug a handful of matches out of their box and handed them to Kinch. "Your German's pretty good, Olsen," he said casually. All right, then; Olsen had officially admitted to being fluent in German, and there would be no walking that back. If that had been a slip, he'd learn something from the kid's reaction to the cock-up. If it hadn't been, it was one less thing they had to worry about.

"Huh? Oh. Thanks. My grandma was from Germany, and she taught me some when I was a kid. It's come in pretty handy over here," Olsen said, counting what remained in his pile of matches with a slight frown.

"I imagine it would," Kinch said. "Deal me in, Pete. So, Olsen, did your CO make use of your language skills?"

"Only once," Olsen said with a bit of a rueful grin. "We'd met these pretty frauleins on leave, you see, and he asked me to make the introductions, and, well, we'd had a few drinks by that point. And I kind of thought it would be funny if I, um, got a little creative with my translations, and, ah…"

"And she slapped him silly?"

"I think she was actually Max Schmeling in a dress. He fell flat on his caboose. And his hat ended up halfway across the room in a puddle of spilled beer," he said. "I was on KP for a month. Actually, if I hadn't been captured, I'd _still_ be on KP. Silver linings, I guess."

Newkirk snorted. "You must really 'ate KP if this dump seemed like the better alternative."

Olsen made a face. "Hey, I'm just trying to look on the bright side."

"Forget it. Newkirk doesn't even admit that bright sides exist," Richmond advised, and tossed away three cards. Another spectacular poker hand in the making. There was probably a good reason that they always let the man with the quickest fingers and fewest scruples be dealer. And some day, he thought, he might figure out just what that reason was.

"Seeing is believing, mate. When I _see_ one, I'll believe it," Newkirk said, dealing him three new ones. They weren't much of an improvement on the ones he'd originally discarded.

"I'll take one," Olsen said. "I don't know. I guess I'd rather—"

Just what he would rather was never to be known; just at that moment the door opened, letting in two men from Barracks Seven, newly released from a week spent listening to their fingernails grow in solitary. One of them made a beeline for the table. "Olsen? That you?"

"Barrie! I didn't know _you_ were here!" They embraced, with a good bit of back slapping.

"Apparently they are total strangers," LeBeau told Newkirk.

"Must be," Newkirk said. "Only logical conclusion."

Barrie laughed. "We went to high school together. I had the biggest crush on his sister…!"

"I put a stop to that pretty darned quick, I can tell you that," Olsen said, laughing too.

Forrest abandoned a not-quite-full house. "I think I've had enough bad luck for one night," he said, getting up from the table and shoving what remained of his matchsticks back into the box.

"Well, tomorrow is another day," Newkirk said. "Let's see now. Carry the four… that's twelve thousand, four 'undred and eighteen pounds you owe me. I'll just add it to your tab, shall I?"

"Twelve thousand…! I thought you said this was just a friendly game!" said Olsen.

"And so it is," Newkirk said. "We're all friends, aren't we?"

Olsen's eyes were about the size of saucers as he looked from Newkirk's grin—showing just a few teeth too many to be classified as entirely friendly—and his own, much diminished, pile of matches. "Twelve thousand pounds? What's that in real money?"

Barrie, Kinch and LeBeau thought that was funny; judging by the expressions on their faces, none of the RAF flyers did. "That would be twelve thousand, four 'undred and eighteen pounds in 'real money,' thanks kindly, Yank," Newkirk said. "Shall we take a look at _your_ tab, while we're at it?"

"Would that be in dollars, Reichsmarks, or pounds?" Kinch asked sweetly.

"I don't… but I… I don't even know how much is _in_ a pound," Olsen said, his voice scaling upwards by the moment.

"Sixteen ounces," said LeBeau.

Even the Brits thought _that_ one was funny, and, while everyone else was mock-helpfully introducing Olsen to the wonderful world of non-decimalized currency, complete with the slang terms for the various denominations, Forrest slipped away from the table and made his way towards Hogan's office.

He thought that Olsen had now been pretty thoroughly identified, and two days of shadowing him had produced nothing more incriminating than a prolonged, revolting, and ultimately fruitful excavation of a blocked nostril when he thought no one was watching. (Newkirk, when reporting the incident, had claimed that Olsen had been in there up to the second knuckle, but they took that with their customary grain of salt. Olsen's fingers were far too long for any such thing to be remotely plausible.)

In any case, Olsen was probably not a German plant. Just another American POW, albeit one who lacked a handkerchief, and no threat, so long as he washed his hands before interacting with anyone else. With any luck, that meant that Hogan would let them resume tunneling. Forrest knocked at Hogan's office door to convey the news.

Forrest still hadn't quite decided what he thought about Hogan's plan. It was espionage, plain and simple, and the Geneva Convention was very clear in that regard. Forrest didn't much favor the idea of being shot as a spy, of course, no one would, but, frankly, he wasn't sure he liked the idea of working as a spy any better. It seemed… dishonorable, somehow. It wasn't the risk that was bothering him, he decided; no one could possibly be thick enough to enlist in the military, in wartime, without at least considering the likelihood of being shot and killed. He'd accepted that as a possibility, a long time ago. And after his capture, he'd accepted it all over again.

But spying…? No. He wanted to fight, but not like that. He wanted to face his enemies openly, honorably. War was not glorious, God knew he'd learned that quickly enough, but he didn't care about the sort of honor and glory that other people could see. He did, however, care about his own self-perception, and the deception and underhandedness of intelligence work fundamentally upset him. He couldn't do it. If that made him a coward or a hypocrite, well, that was a pity. But it wasn't something he could change.

Hogan opened his door, waved Forrest in. "Hello, Sergeant. What can I do for you?"

"Just reporting in, sir," Forrest said. "Olsen's having a reunion with an old school friend; Corporal Barrie. From over in Seven, via the cooler, which is why it took them this long to meet. Unless Barrie's also secretly German, I'd say that Olsen's been fairly well vouched for."

"Good," Hogan said. "That means we can get back to work… and I bet Newkirk will be glad to stop playing nursemaid. At least until the next greenhorn shows up, anyway."

"I'm sure he will," Forrest said, with a faint smile. "If nothing else, letting Olsen win at cards must be driving the poor fellow 'round the twist."

Hogan chuckled. "Maybe I'll wait another couple of days before telling him he can go back to taking the men for everything they're worth. But that's not really what you came in here to tell me, is it?"

Forrest closed his eyes briefly. "No, sir; I suppose it isn't."

"I smell bad news on the way," Hogan said.

Forrest squared his shoulders. "I…sir…"

"You're here about volunteering for my crew," Hogan said, and paused just long enough to watch Forrest flinch. "Specifically, you're here to tell me you want no part of it. Am I right?"

Forrest swallowed. "I'm afraid so, sir. I don't feel I would have much to contribute to an operation like the one you've described."

"I think you underestimate yourself. But I appreciate your honesty, and I respect your decision. Just two more things; naturally, you understand that everything you've seen or heard is to be treated as top secret. As in, you don't mention this to anyone. Ever."

"Yes, sir," Forrest said. "I do understand that, sir."

"Good. The other thing is this. The escape I'm planning is going to be a big one. I don't have a final roster yet, but I'm thinking it'll end up being something like a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty men, in several groups. Would you be interested in commanding one of those groups?"

"Me, sir? Command?"

"Yup. I've seen the way you run this barracks. You're good with people, and you can keep your head in a crisis. If you'd been interested in staying, I'd've been happy to have you. As it is, I can't think of anyone better suited to get the men to safety. Think it over, will you?"

Forrest saluted, relieved and thrilled in roughly equal measure. Hogan had taken his refusal with far better grace than he had been expecting; therein lay the relief. And thrilled was self-explanatory; it looked as though the escape was really going to happen, and presumably soon. And what an escape it would be! A hundred, or a hundred and fifty men… it was almost too much to take in. Almost too much to believe. If Hogan could really accomplish such a miracle, what else might he manage down the line?

He looked around the barracks as he returned to his bunk, and was completely astonished to realize that he was almost reluctant to miss whatever else the Yank might have up his sleeve. _Almost_ reluctant. Not enough to change his mind. But almost.

As he walked back to the table, the others were finishing up a rough back-of-the-envelope calculation, converting matchsticks to pounds to dollars. The resulting total was more inflammatory than the matches had been.

"Six hundred and eighty three dollars?" Olsen squeaked. "Where the hell am I supposed to come up with that kind of money?"

"Cheer up," Kinch said. "You're not officially part of the Stalag 13 family until Newkirk's holding a marker on you for your life savings, firstborn child, and your granny's life insurance. Just think of it as part of the induction process."

Olsen made a face. "Yeah, well, my granny doesn't _have_ life insurance, and I don't even have a girlfriend anymore, let alone a firstborn child. So what then, Corporal Card Sharp?"

"Trade in kind. Six hundred dollars, eh?" LeBeau shrugged. "Perhaps a pack of cigarettes. More like half a pack."

"Oh, not even," Richmond said. "That's—at _most_ —a chore swap. Take garbage detail in his place one day."

"Or you could always do what the rest of us do," Forrest offered.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Absolutely nothing," said LeBeau. "All those markers are to be paid after the war, and once we are liberated, he will never be able to find us to collect. Problem solved. I'm tired of poker. How about a few rounds of euchre?"

"Fine by me, mate. I imagine all that losing _does_ get tiresome." Newkirk bridged the cards and let them hiss neatly into place. "Keep your 'air on, Olesen. It's all in good fun. If I thought I'd ever _really_ be able to collect from these deadbeats, I'd be a lot more careful about actually keeping records of who owes me what."

"He might cheat less, too," said Kinch.

"No, he wouldn't," said Richmond.

"You see the abuse I 'ave to take? Can I 'elp it if none of these jokers knows a straight from a strudel?" Newkirk dealt out the cards, keeping one eye on Olesen and the other on Forrest. The barracks chief looked… at peace. He'd come to some sort of conclusion, and it didn't take a genius to guess what about.

He watched Forrest for another hand or two, trying to determine which way that decision had gone, taking in all the infinitesimal details of eyes and posture and lips, then, catching his eye, shot the other man a tiny smile, and nodded.

All things considered, he'd miss the bloke.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Max Schmeling was a famous and successful German boxer. If he punched you, you'd probably be lucky if the worst thing that happened to you was having to retrieve your hat from a puddle of beer, so I suspect that Olsen was either exaggerating or simply mistaken. Also, there's no evidence that he ever wore a dress, so the chances are that Olsen and his luckless CO simply met a young woman with a good right hook and a disinclination to take any crap from mildly intoxicated airmen. And good for her, say I.

I'll rather miss Forrest myself, but since there was never, to my knowledge, a character of that name on the program, it's either send him home or get him killed. and Hogan really does need someone of his caliber to keep the escape on track once they were past the point where Hogan could supervise it in person.


	28. Chapter 28

It finally stopped raining sometime that night; the next morning was as bright and beautiful as Stalag 13 ever got. Lange, who never missed an opportunity to ruin a good thing for everyone if he could possibly help it, announced a full-scale inspection for the following morning. All bedding was to be freshly aired, all clothing was to be laundered and folded neatly into footlockers, all surfaces were to be scrubbed, the sooty grime was to be entirely removed, and so forth. Any deviations from perfection would, naturally, bring severe punishment.

Everyone from Lange on down knew that, once the bedding was freshly aired, etc, it would be torn from the beds and searched with a bayonet, that the lockers would be dumped onto the floor and their contents trampled, that the barracks would be an utter shambles afterwards, and that no matter how clean the barracks had been, Lange would find reasons to punish them anyway. He would make some up if he had to. These inspections always meant a full day of cleaning beforehand, a day of standing around watching helplessly as their possessions were devastated, and, usually, two or three days spent repairing the damage afterwards. It was quite the morale-booster.

For the Krauts.

"Why am I doing this?" Newkirk asked, wringing out his cleaning rag. "Why didn't I do the smart thing and punch Jager in the beak when he announced this bleeding inspection?"

"Because he would have killed you," Kinch said, and grimaced. A dead mouse is unpleasant. A dead mouse lying directly beneath a man's bunk is outright appalling. He picked it up by the tail and threw it into the trash can.

"Maybe. More likely I would've just gotten myself a nice quiet couple of days in the cooler. By the time they let me out, our jolly little bungalow would've been back to its usual squalor, and I wouldn't be looking like a coal miner just off shift." Newkirk had somehow drawn the job of cleaning out the potbellied stove, and was snaking out the malfunctioning stovepipe. The results were predictable. Kinch bit his lip before the smirk could escape.

"Oh, quit complaining. After we scrub the floor, we can hose you down, too," Kinch said, and glanced across the compound. A detachment of men were trying to return the bedding to the original dingy gray, as opposed to the dingy charcoal gray it had become after absorbing several pounds of soot. They didn't seem to be having much luck, but being handed a carpet beater and instructed to let out all their accumulated frustrations was usually a welcome diversion. And there was an unspoken rule that one did not listen to the muttered imprecations that usually accompanied the vicious beatings, or at least not the parts that didn't refer to Germans.

"Charming," Newkirk said. "Using the same scrubbing brushes, I imagine. You're too good to me."

"Unless you'd rather we try the same carpet beaters they're using for the blankets," Kinch said, and was rewarded with an irritated huff and an eye roll. "Don't let me influence your decision one way or the other, but you've won an awful lot of poker pots recently. And by 'recently' I mean 'since 1939.'"

"I assumed that's why I got saddled with this little chore in the first place," said Newkirk. "At any rate, if it means we can start making coffee again, I suppose it's worth a stint of playing chimney sweep."

"Well, I'll be damned," said Kinch. "I think I just heard you look on the bright side of something. The world's probably coming to an end."

"Figures the world would come to an end before this ruddy war does."

"…And we're back to normal. But actually… speaking of the war coming to an end; if you don't mind my asking, what did you think of the Colonel's idea?"

"I thought it sounded like a very efficient way to get ourselves shot. What did you think?"

"I… I'm not sure," Kinch said. "I mean, it sounded fantastic. Obviously, I hope he can pull it off. I'd like to be involved."

"But?"

"But I'm not sure the Colonel would have any use for me. I'm not going to be anyone's first choice for this kind of thing, and I don't really fit in with the rest of you."

"Whyever not?"

Kinch sighed. "Come on, Pete. Do I _look_ German to you?"

"No, but I'd rather think that the trick of being a good spy is not getting seen," Newkirk said. "And you _sound_ German enough for anyone."

"Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?"

"Not entirely sure, come to that. But in any case, you're right; you'd be better off going 'ome. Get back into the war if you want to, but do it the right way around."

"The right way around. That's a laugh," said Kinch. "The army was—barely—willing to take me as cannon fodder, but anything more than that gave them a real bellyache."

Newkirk gave him a quizzical look. "And yet I can't 'elp but notice that you've a bit more embroidery on your sleeves than I do on mine. I'd not mind a few bellyaches like that."

"I _earned_ those stripes, fair and square," said Kinch. He sounded defensive, but that was only because he was _feeling_ defensive. He _had_ earned them. He'd earned them by being twice as good as any white airman, and four times as good as most of them. And while he liked many of the men he'd met here in camp, he couldn't help recognizing that he was quite a bit smarter than quite a few of them.

 _He_ recognized that. The ones he'd come to regard as friends—which, yes, included Newkirk—recognized that. There were more than a couple of men here in camp who, he knew, did not. Would Hogan? Even if he did, would he be willing to gamble that integration wouldn't cause more trouble than Kinch's very real intelligence would be worth? Would his superiors back at High Command?

"Never said otherwise," said Newkirk. "Nor thought so, either. Point is, you earned them doing your job. Go back to doing your job, you might just get a few more of them."

"Fat chance of that. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but you can't know what it's like for someone like me, Newkirk. Being a second class citizen doesn't really lend itself to advancing through the ranks. You've got no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, of course. No idea at all. I understand. Whatever could I possibly know about being looked down on? About being treated like dirt, because, so far as they're concerned, I _am_ dirt? No, certainly never 'ad _that_ little experience." He wrung out his rag again. "Aside from every day of me life, of course."

"It's not the same, and you know it," Kinch said, stung.

"It's exactly the same," Newkirk said. "Look, mate, on your side of the pond, maybe they think you can know if a person's worth anything by looking at him. But on our side, they know by listening. One dropped 'H' and you're done for."

"Yes, and you can sound like an Oxford don if you want to. I've heard you do it! I can't just switch back and forth the way you can, Newkirk. It's easy for you; _your_ army isn't segregated. Nobody's afraid to let _you_ come near them."

"No, I'm sure they just clutch their bags a bit tighter for the added warmth," Newkirk said. "Segregated or not, a lad from the East End is going to 'ave a rougher time of it than one from the playing fields of Eton. That's just the way it is."

"Okay, fair enough," Kinch conceded. "Maybe you do know what it's like. Still, you've got a pretty unique set of qualifications for this kind of job. I worry that I'd be… not really part of the team. There are a lot of people who wouldn't want to work with me."

"What, like that tosser Randall and 'is mates? Do me a favor! You think that those are the sort of folks we'd want working with _us_?"

"Us, huh? You've already talked to the Colonel about this?" Kinch felt the strangest twinge of jealousy. "He already asked you to join up?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Not exactly. Asked me a question or two, right enough, but not quite so chummy as that. No, it was just that, before 'e could let me stay in prison, 'e 'ad to make certain that prison wasn't where I belonged. Our commanding officer likes me ten magic fingers well enough, but 'e wasn't at all certain about the man attached to them. Probably still isn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about being asked whether, in addition to being a sneak thief, I'm a rapist as well. Or a murderer." Newkirk's face was expressionless. "Tell me some more about 'ow easy I 'ave it. I've always liked fairy tales."

"…Oh." Kinch didn't quite know what to say to that. Finally, opting for a bit of gallows humor on the grounds that it usually worked pretty well, he said, "Just out of curiosity… are you?"

"No to the first; I like me birds enthusiastic. As for the second, not yet, but keep on irritating me and we'll see. Look, Kinch, I'll level with you. You're a good enough mate that I'd like to see you out of 'ere, all right? But if you're barmy enough to consider staying, then talk to the Colonel about it before you decide. Don't just go getting narked based on what you think 'e might say, or what you imagine someone else in the outfit might think, because that's not just being crazy, it's being _stupid_."

"…You're probably right," said Kinch.

"Of course I am," said Newkirk. "When am I not?"

"Don't make me answer that one, all right? Neither of us will end up happy."

"Unhappy? In a stalag? Now you're just being silly."

"Crazy, stupid, and now silly. I'm having one hell of a day," said Kinch, leaning on his mop. "I think I _will_ talk to the Colonel. The worst that can happen is that he says I'm no use to him and tells me to escape."

"Now _there's_ a bright side worth looking at, mate."

"Twice in one day. I'm impressed. You know, Newkirk, I'm beginning to think you're not as much of a pessimist as you let on."

"Well, perhaps you lot've been a bad influence on me. Just don't go spreading it around. I've got a reputation to think of, you know," said Newkirk, giving the stove one final swipe of the rag.

Kinch chuckled. "My lips are sealed; don't worry. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Yes, well. If we're to be spies, mate, we'd bloody well _better_ be."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The inspection went pretty much as expected. The best thing about it, as Richmond had pointed out, was that there would probably not be another one for at least a month. Forrest had disagreed; the best thing, so far as he was concerned, had been Lange's failure to find the tunnel or any of the other shoot-on-sight contraband they had squirreled away in some rather ingenious nooks and hiding spots. LeBeau said that, if they were looking for things to be happy about, the inspection had given them the opportunity to repair the stove, and now he could cook again. Newkirk said that, if his fixing the stove was going to lead to the infliction of sauce béarnaise on the rest of them, he would begin distributing his written apologies as soon as he could steal enough writing paper. Olsen, who was beginning to get into the swing of things in Stalag 13, opined that Newkirk had enough things to apologize for, béarnaise sauce or no béarnaise sauce, that there might not be enough paper in Germany to suffice. And life went on.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Swing the pick. Shovel whatever was loosened into the bucket. Hammer another support into place. When the bucket was full, pass it back, get an empty one in exchange. Spit the dust from the back of your throat. Chip away at the rock-hard dirt. Wipe the sweat from your face. Look nervously at the roof of the tunnel; pray if you have the inclination. Swing the pick again. And again. And again.

Hour after hour after day after day, they worked in shifts, making their inexorable way towards the treeline. Some of them dared to hope that this time— _this time_ —they'd make it out, make it home. Some of them did their best to smother that mocking hope, too afraid of seeing it dashed. And one by one, as the tunnel edged outwards and onwards, they made up their minds. The ones who decided that they were willing to stay made peace with the fact that the tunnel was not for them; the ones who accepted that they needed to go tried to forgive themselves for leaving comrades and brothers behind. One by one, they caught Hogan's eye, drew him aside for a few quiet words, and answered his questions. One by one, he shook their hands and entered their names in the appropriate lists.

And the tunnel stretched ever further into the distance. Inch by inch. Shovelful by shovelful. Prayer by prayer.

It was Richmond who actually broke through, and all he could do was stare at the sliver of sky as sunlight— _free_ sunlight—met his eyes for the first time in a little over two years. Two years. It was July of 1942, and he was peering through a crack in the earth, looking out over a stretch of land that was not hemmed in with barbed wire, and, just for a moment, his vision blurred with unshed tears.

The mad impulse to swing the pick that one final time, to break the last barrier keeping him in Hell, and to run, simply run, washed over him like too many shots of neat whiskey—to blazes with Hogan's careful plans, with the growing stack of forged papers and hand-sewn civilian suits hidden in a false-bottomed trunk. He could go, he could _go_ ; there was nothing stopping him, not anymore.

Or else... he could pack the tiny crevice with mud and turn around, report back to his CO and his friends, the way he was supposed to. He bit his lip, torn, even as he was pouring the last of his drinking water into the bucket of dirt and beginning to plaster the hole closed. Because so long as they were in limbo, balanced between the harsh reality of being prisoners in truth and the mad possibilities of being agents merely playing the part of prisoners for reasons of camouflage, so long as the tunnel was not yet operational, he did not have to make any final decisions. He didn't have to decide how far he trusted the American officer, nor how much he was willing to risk. Because he didn't know. He truly did not know.

But the tunnel was, to all intents and purposes, finished. That meant that he, Richmond, could conceivably choose to leave. And somehow, that very fact trapped him more thoroughly than the German war machine ever had.


	29. Chapter 29

Richmond lifted the trap door a crack and peered out; the coast appeared to be fairly clear, and he pushed it open the rest of the way, climbed into the barracks. "Forrest? Is the Colonel around?"

Forrest shook his head. "He's having a bit of a discussion with Lange about either our Red Cross supplies, our mail, or our uniforms; I forget which lost cause he said he was going to tackle. Is there a problem?"

"Not a problem, exactly," said Richmond. "I broke ground. We're through."

"Not a problem at all!" Forrest said. "That's the best news I've heard in ages!"

"Maybe," said Richmond. "I don't know. Forrest… have you thought about this? I mean, really thought about it?"

"Of course I have. A better question would be, has anyone been thinking of anything _else._ What are you getting at? Are you still trying to decide between staying and going?"

"No. I'm trying to guess whether Hogan intends for us to stay or go. You know better than just about anyone why I'm a bit hesitant to trust him," said Richmond.

Forrest couldn't really argue with that. "Sooner or later, we'll have to take the chance," he said, after a moment. "What else can we do? Stay here in limbo, afraid to take a step in either direction? And I tell you, he seems a good man. I don't think he'd betray us."

"He does seem so. But we've said that before, haven't we?"

Forrest sighed. "The worst that can happen is that we die. That's all."

"Come off it. That's not the worst that could happen, not by a long shot, and you know it," said Richmond. "I can't go through that a second time."

"…No," Forrest conceded after a long moment. "I don't think I could, either."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The prisoners griped about the ice-cold showers, and with good reason, but there wasn't a one of them who didn't prefer being clean to the alternative, even if that _did_ mean brushing icicles out of their hair when they got back to the barracks.

Modesty was a concept that had pretty much been relegated to the 'lost cause' drawer, and no one even really thought about it much, anymore. They were taken to the showers in groups of ten, at irregular intervals, and there were neither partitions nor curtains between the taps. They were only allotted three minutes of water, and it was too damned cold to dilly-dally, so they peeled down, scrubbed themselves with the harsh yellow soap, rinsed and redressed as quickly as possible. There were, of course, unspoken rules. It was not a social event. You did not look at anything or anyone. You spoke to no one. You stood under your own tap, eyes straight ahead, you did what you had to do, and you pretended that you were alone, that there were not nine other naked, shivering men in there with you, that you could not hear the guards making predictable, coarse jokes.

Hogan knew the rules as well as anyone, and even if he hadn't, he had the basic decency not to notice or comment on another man's physical imperfections. That said, he wasn't blind, and the heavy scarring that latticed Newkirk's back was pretty damned hard to miss.

If there was a square inch of skin that was whole and unmarred, it wasn't immediately apparent. Hogan kept his face impassive as he unbuttoned his own shirt. He risked another quick glance at the ugly, ropy mess that had been hidden beneath the high collar of Newkirk's jumper, and, deep in the privacy of his own mind, wondered how in hell the man had survived.

Back in the barracks, Hogan poured himself a mug of alleged coffee and fitted his hands around it, because he couldn't think of anything else to do with them. He looked into the depths of the mug for a moment, then looked back up. Involuntarily, his gaze flicked across the room, came to rest on one still figure leaning against the bunk, and he looked away again.

The memory of Wilson's voice rang in Hogan's head. " _The lucky ones just spent some quality time in the cooler. At least three were put up against the wall and shot, some were sent to other camps, and one was tied to the flagpole and whipped half to death at morning roll call. Presumably as a salutary lesson to the rest of us._ "

Well, no prizes for guessing who that had been. God. Shooting was too good for the damned Nazis, and that was a fact. He shoved the untouched mug away, too repulsed to drink it.

Newkirk, who had been watching Hogan watching him, pushed himself away from the bunk and plunked himself down at the table across from Hogan. "It's all right, sir," he said, under his breath, and helped himself to the rejected coffee. "Everyone stares, first time they see it. Been a fun war for all of us."

"Wilson said that he'd heard that the Krauts had whipped a man for attempting an escape. Hadn't mentioned any names."

"Wilson 'eard right. A few of us thought we'd like to go for a nice stroll in the woods one moonlit evening. Wasn't one of our cleverer notions, all things considered."

"I guess it wasn't. A 'few of us' meaning who?"

"This was a while back. LeBeau and I, Richmond and Forrest, and two other blokes who are gone," said Newkirk. "Mind you, it was an authorized escape, not a spur of the moment thing. We'd planned it for a month."

"They weren't caught, then?"

"I took point. The others were able to get their arses back to the barracks when the goons nicked me." He smirked. "For some reason, they didn't believe that I'd just 'appened to find a pair of wire cutters lying on the ground. And they _definitely_ didn't believe that I'd been on me way to turn them right over to me good mate the Sergeant of the Guard. Called me a liar to me face, if you please! 'Urtful, I call that."

"I hate a suspicious guard," Hogan said lightly. There was more to that story, and he intended to hear it, one way or the other. Newkirk was quick enough to dismiss the whole subject with a few jokes, but no one went through that kind of torture without being marked in ways that went well beyond the physical.

"Huh! Don't we all. Sir," Newkirk said, and flickered a bit of a grin. "Maybe next war we'll get a better class of bloody bastards."

"Let's finish this one before we start worrying about the next," Hogan said. "Your friends just left you to take the fall, huh?"

"Better for all of us that way," Newkirk said. "I kept me mouth shut, and they didn't really care enough to make an issue of it. If I was acting alone, the Krauts didn't need to do any snooping, which suited us both. They got to avoid a bit of work, which was good for them, and it was good for us, because, believe me, there were a few things in that barracks they didn't need to see."

"True but irrelevant. You're telling me you weren't the least bit upset that you were the only one who took a beating?"

"I'd've taken a miss on the experience if it'd been left up to me, I can't deny that, but I was grateful they'd gotten away, sir," Newkirk said. "If nothing else, it meant they were in a position… and in the right frame of mind… to 'elp me along until I was up and about again. Which they wouldn't've been if they'd been beat alongside of me."

"The first half of that sounded selfless. The second half sounds calculating. Which was it?"

"Why does it 'ave to be one or the other? I was getting a good seeing-to either way, sir. It wouldn't've 'urt one bit less if I'd 'ad company. Why couldn't I be glad me mates were safe _and_ try to survive as best I could?"

"Figuring things from three different angles again, huh? Newkirk, there are more holes in that story than there are in my socks. Tell me the rest of it."

"All right, sir. What do you want to 'ear? That the Kommandant didn't make a fuss about who me accomplices were because he already knew? That 'e'd found out what we were planning, chapter and verse? That flaying me alive as an example to the others was always the plan, whether I talked or not? 'E did, 'e had, and it was." He spread his hands in a 'what can you do?' gesture. "It's all water under the bridge at this point."

Hogan's eyes widened. "Yes, actually. I want to hear all about that. How did he know?"

"Because our senior POW officer told 'im," said Newkirk. "Captain Weston."

Hogan didn't believe that. No, he didn't _want_ to believe that a man would sell out his comrades— his command!— to the enemy. "That's not possible," he said. "No officer would do that to one of his men."

After an awkward pause, Newkirk's voice was gentle, almost pitying. "Sir… you've not been in the camps for all that long, 'ave you?"

"You don't know that he sold you out," Hogan insisted. "It could all have been just a lot of bad luck."

"I do know it. Weston 'imself told me," Newkirk said. "Bold as brass. Said that, if the escape 'ad gone off as planned, the Krauts were going to crack down on the rest of the lads. Cut the rations. Confiscate blankets. Worse. 'E said 'e'd no choice but to rat us out. I can't even say I think 'e was wrong."

Hogan shook his head again, trying to deny the logic of it. Five men weighed against five hundred… "Where's Weston now?"

Newkirk jerked a laconic thumb towards the heavens. "Up there, I expect, sir," he said. Before Hogan could relax, he continued. "The Krauts threw 'im in on a prisoner exchange, as a goodwill gesture, they said. I suppose 'e went back to flying."

"Disgraceful," said Hogan.

"Convenient," corrected Newkirk. "It was far easier to sweep the whole thing under the rug without 'im about, and the last thing any of us needed was for anyone else in camp to learn the truth."

"Why the secrecy?"

"Sir? Tell the others that their CO sold out to the Krauts? Killing Weston would've gotten them court martialed and shot by _both_ sides of the war."

Hogan, understandably, looked less than delighted with that answer.

"It didn't matter, anyway," Newkirk said. "The whole sordid business bought 'im a ticket 'ome. Over and done with. 'E wouldn't be 'ere to do us any more damage even if 'e'd wanted to, and morale was bad enough as it was. Better the others should think that it was just all bad luck. We knew. Those of us who needed to, the ones in on it, we knew. That was enough."

Hogan shook his head. "Just great. No wonder half the boys in here have been biting their nails to the second knuckle every time they look my way. Let me make one thing crystal clear. I don't work like that. I don't throw my men to the wolves."

"You will if you 'ave to," said Newkirk without the slightest rancor. "That's war. Sometimes, taking the big pot means 'aving to grit your teeth, stake your wristwatch, and forfeit a few lesser 'ands along the way."

"I see," said Hogan. "Lesser hands, huh? That's what you meant about 'playing fox' during the escape, isn't it?"

"The Krauts know where to look when there's mischief about," said Newkirk. "Misdirection. Look at me running about, watch the left 'and, while the right 'and does the work. Abracadabra, a dozen prisoners disappear in the blink of an eye. That's what we're playing for, this round, innit?"

"That's what we're playing for," said Hogan slowly. "But it's not _all_ we're playing for. Look, even if you don't believe anything else I've said since I rolled in the gates, believe this. I'm not Weston. I won't make up pretty lies and say that there won't be any danger, or even that we'll all make it out of here. But I will say that, if we don't, it won't ever be because I sold anyone out to the Krauts. Not for any reason under the sun, not ever."

"Appreciated. But it's not me you've got to convince, sir," said Newkirk. "I made up me mind to trust you a good while back, and there's an end to it, Weston or no Weston. But I 'ad the easier time of it, when it's all said and done. It wasn't the first time I've taken a stripe or three, and it probably won't be the last. All _I_ 'ad to do was close me eyes and wait for them to finish. The others… well, sir, they 'ad to _watch_."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Weston's name has been coming up for some time; sort of a Chekhov's Gun. Like they say- if you hang it on the wall in Act One, sooner or later it had better go off. And now it has.


	30. Chapter 30

Using the old tree stump as their exit was a good idea. Really. It was a convenient landmark, it was sturdy enough to withstand a good deal of use, it was easily camouflaged. Good points, all of them. It meant that it would be safer, more secure.

It also meant a long, painstaking slog with woodworking tools none of them had more than a theoretical idea of how to use properly, chipping away at the gnarled, recalcitrant wood. It meant sawdust in their throats and splinters in very inconvenient places. It meant far too much time to think.

Richmond stared stonily into the depths of the stump. "I still say burning out the center would have been a great deal faster," he said.

"Couldn't've been much slower," said Newkirk. "But if we'd done it from the outside, the smoke would've gone straight up and warned every Kraut for a mile in each direction, and if we'd done it from the bottom up, it would've choked us all. I've been accused of being a ham before this, but I'd rather not be a _smoked_ one, if it's all the same to you."

"This from the man who's singlehandedly supporting every cigarette vendor in the western hemisphere? I just want to get this over with," said Richmond. "I can't bear any more of this waiting."

"Understandable. You're going back, then?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," said Richmond.

"That covers pretty much all your options," said Newkirk. "Why the devil would you want to stay? Can't possibly be the food."

Richmond snorted. "Hardly. I… I don't know. This doesn't seem quite real, you understand? Escaping, that is. I don't quite trust that this isn't some sort of trap."

Newkirk lifted an eyebrow. "A trap? Would that be on the part of the Jerries, the Yank, or the Fates?"

"All of them, maybe. Newkirk, we've both seen this game played out before… and you know as well as I what's at stake. What if Weston was right?"

"Depends. Right about what, exactly?"

"About us doing more harm than good. Even if a hundred of us get away clean, what happens to the hundreds left behind?"

"As I understand the reasoning, we're betting that if Lange wakes up one morning and finds out that he's missing a third of his prisoners, Berlin will have a fit. And _we'll_ wake up the _next_ morning and find out that we're missing one very unlikeable Kraut. If we can discredit Lange badly enough, there won't be time for 'im to do much before 'e follows Muller's example and cleans the wax from 'is ears the quick way."

"You can't be serious. How long did it take for him to reduce you to raw meat?" Richmond asked. "What's to stop him doing it again, or worse? Have you thought about that?"

"Frequently. Especially at three o'clock in the morning," Newkirk said. "Funny thing about enlisting, though; they'd a lot to say about the importance of protecting England, and were quite conspicuously silent as regarded protecting a bloke called Peter Newkirk. Fairly sure that wasn't an accident. I suspect that you'd a similar experience."

Richmond shook his head. "You're staying, aren't you? Despite all that?"

"I am."

"I can't.

"I know." Newkirk pushed back his cap and looked Richmond square in the eye. "And I'm glad you're going, mate. Drop a bomb or two from me, all right?"

"You must despise me."

"Must I? Why's that?"

"I… I just can't stay here. It's not that I'm afraid, you understand. I just—"

"You don't need to justify yourself to me. No one's ever going to think less of you, or think you're taking the easy way out, just for opting to get shot at, in a tin can at 30,000 feet, instead of swanning about a POW camp waiting for peace to break out."

"I do want to get back to a war I can understand. I can't bear all this cloak and dagger stuff, where everyone's lying with each breath and one never knows who to trust."

Newkirk wasn't entirely sure he could relate to that. He had never actually had that problem, but that was only because he had spent most of his life among people he had always known he couldn't trust, and fish have a hard time comprehending complaints about water. So he just nodded.

"I've got a bad feeling about this escape. And about Hogan. Even if he's not a traitor like Weston, and I'll go so far as to say I don't think he is… aren't you afraid that he's just using you?"

"Using me?" Newkirk barked a laugh. "Of course 'e's using me! Cor—an officer and a toff? What else could I expect? That's what they all do!"

Richmond managed not to recoil. "I see," he said, sounding stilted and stuffy even to his own ears. His blood lacked even the faintest hint of blue, but, at least from an East Ender's point of view, he himself counted as a toff, or close to it. That assessment had stung; it distanced him. It didn't occur to him until years afterwards that it had been intended to do so.

"It's fair enough. I'm using 'im every bit as much as the other way around," Newkirk continued. "Maybe I'm the bomb 'e plans to drop on the Krauts, but if so, then 'Ogan's the plane I'm using to get me there."

Richmond thought about that. "The bombs don't come back to the base after a mission," he said, finally. "They're blown to bits whether they hit their intended targets or not. They never make it home."

"We're all of us living proof that the planes don't always make it back, either," said Newkirk. "We've all got our own way of fighting. I think this one's got to be mine, but that doesn't make it better or worse than the one you're going back to. It just makes it mine."

"It's been quite the adventure, these last two years," said Richmond. "I rather think I'll miss you lads."

"I daresay," said Newkirk, and flashed a grin. "But who can tell? Perhaps with some practice, your aim will improve. Come on; if we don't get this bleeding stump 'ollowed out, we'll be 'ere until the _next_ war starts."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan shuffled an armload of papers across the rough board table. He still wasn't quite sure where the men had acquired it, and it was probably better that way, but it was coming in very handy. Now that there was an exit, and thus a way to dispose of dirt quickly and easily, they had excavated themselves a regular bunker, some ten feet square and high enough that not even Kinch had to duck his head. He was not quite finished installing the wires and other bits of equipment for their radio setup, but he had already jury-rigged a small mechanism for raising and lowering their antenna, and more than one man had been seen sneaking looks at the flagpole, with its arrogant red banner and its hidden secret, with an expression of smug fondness. Pride was, slowly but surely, sneaking its way back into the stalag.

Hogan looked around the small cavern. It would do for a start, he thought complacently, but they would need more room. He could already see it in his mind's eye; a whole network of workrooms and passages, honeycombing the entire camp. He wondered how much digging he could get out of the men he was sending home before the big escape actually came off… God knew they would be motivated, and would probably be feeling grateful enough not to kick at a few extra shifts on the business end of a shovel.

He flipped through his papers again, scribbling notes and corrections. His roster was more or less complete. He had a list of one hundred and fifty men, divided into fifteen groups of ten apiece, each with an assigned leader, a specific direction in which to run, a designated safehouse where they would be met by Underground members, and a recognition code. This escape had to be spectacular; it was, so far as he could figure, the only way to be rid of Lange. It was also going to be something of a beacon to captured airmen the length and breadth of Germany— _escape is possible._ Stalag 13 had to be a symbol; the place where Nazi strength was shown up for the toothless, hollow façade the world needed it to be.

He tried not to think about it, but there was also the possibility that this escape would be his sole accomplishment as a saboteur, and if so, it had to be doubly spectacular. If this exploit was going to be his epitaph, then let it be a flamboyant one.

Some time later, LeBeau came into the bunker with a covered dish in his hands. "Ah, _Colonel_ , there you are. I was looking for you."

"You found me. What can I do for you?"

The chef smiled, and handed over the plate. "You can eat this. I saw you did not come to dinner, so I put some aside for you. You cannot plan escapes if you are hungry."

Hogan blinked, and glanced at his watch. "I missed dinner? Wow. Time really flies when you're doing paperwork."

"So it seems," LeBeau said. "Go on, eat. It is nothing special, but better than nothing."

Hogan uncovered the plate. He really had to wonder about the Frenchman's idea of 'nothing special.' It was a bean dish, with a rich gravy , and unless he missed his guess, it had been cooked with some sort of wine about two hundred grades better than the hooch the prisoners produced. He took a bite, and revised his opinion. It was more like three hundred grades better.

"Mmmm," he said. "This is excellent, LeBeau. Thanks."

"It is a pleasure to cook for people who can appreciate good cuisine," LeBeau said, with the unspoken 'unlike some others I could name' hanging heavily from the end of the sentence.

"Tell me; am I mistaken, or did our beloved Kommandant donate some cabernet to the cause?"

"Merlot, as it happens," said LeBeau, unabashed. "His cellar is nothing to write home about, but this is war; we must make some sacrifices."

"I'm guessing that his cellar lock isn't exactly top of the line either?" Hogan lifted a reproving eyebrow; he enjoyed a good dinner as much as anyone, but he had specifically instructed all the men to be on their best behavior, and a spot of liquor larceny did not strike him as falling under the heading of good conduct. "Did you ask our lightfingered friend to look into the matter?"

"We did not disobey," LeBeau said, answering the real question. "We have had this wine for quite some time. Before you took command. We have brought no new trouble upon the camp."

Hogan relaxed. "Okay. Thank you, then. And thank Newkirk when you see him; he has good taste in stolen reds."

"Heh. When I tell him what to look for, yes, he does. Left to himself, he would probably take some dreadful warm beer. Or whiskey."

"Takes all kinds. At least that leaves the good stuff for us wine snobs, right?"

"This is true! I will pass on your thanks," said LeBeau.

Hogan took another bite of the casserole, or whatever it was. The taste was rich, complicated, difficult to classify. It didn't seem to belong in this oversized rabbit hole, or, for that matter, in the dismal barracks. "You're one hell of a chef, LeBeau. I'd have been happy to have you aboard in any case, but coming home from a hard day's sabotage and having a gourmet dinner is a real bonus."

LeBeau preened. "Thank you, _Colonel_. For appreciating my food… and for appreciating that I am not only a chef." He hesitated for a moment, then continued in a different tone. " _Colonel?_ May I say something on a different subject?"

That sounded serious. Hogan put down the spoon. "Of course. What is it?"

"It is about Newkirk. I know he is going to stay and work with you."

"That's right," said Hogan.

"He would be very angry if he knew I told you this. But there is something you must know about him, sir… if something is ever wrong, really wrong, you would be the last person he would tell. He keeps it all to himself."

"Oh, come on. Are we're talking about the same guy? Just this morning, in the hour it took us to get through reveille, roll call, and breakfast, he must have spent a good forty minutes grumbling. His bunkmate had stolen the covers. The weather was too chilly. Roll call was too early. Schultz was too loud. Breakfast was lousy. The coffee was bitter. There was a hole in his sock. He never shut up! The guys were all laughing behind his back."

"It wasn't behind his back. He knew they were laughing; why else do you think he did it? It's just… as a rule, sir, the louder he yells, the less he hurts. When he becomes quiet, that is when you need to worry."

"Huh," Hogan said, thinking about that. "Court jester?"

"I suppose you could call him that. But there is more to it. He… takes care of people. When what they need is someone to laugh with, or at, like they did this morning, then that's what they get. When they need someone to bully them out of the dark, they get that, too."

"So… he's trying to be a comedian, a commando, a nanny, and a psychologist all at once?"

"He is trying to be whoever and whatever seems necessary at any given moment."

"Interesting," Hogan said.

" _Oui_. He does not always know what he needs; figuring that out has been my task, since he would not ask for it even if he did know. And one other thing you should be told, _mon Colonel_ ," he said. "About his loyalty."

Hogan's shoulders tensed. "What about it, Corporal?"

"So far as he can understand, it only ever goes one way." LeBeau shook his head. "He would take a bullet for me without a second thought. For any of us, really, but he and I… we are brothers. And yet, if I were to stab him in the back, it would not surprise him. I am not sure he would even be angry. It is simply what he expects of people. It is probably what he expects of you."

"I see," Hogan said, thinking about that. It explained a few things. "That's… grim."

"That is infuriating," LeBeau corrected. "That is insulting. But that is Pierre, and he does not intend offense."

"No? What does he mean?"

LeBeau didn't say anything for a long moment. "Pierre does not like to talk about unpleasant things," he said, finally. "He will embroider his stories so as to omit the parts he does not want to share, the ones that would make other people uncomfortable. But when you listen long enough, it becomes possible to see the shape of the holes where those parts were removed. And I have had a very long time in which to listen."

Hogan didn't reply; he just nodded, giving the man his full attention.

"I do not know everything," LeBeau said. "But I do know this much. All his life, he has been betrayed, over and over again, by everyone who should ever have been on his side. Everyone who should have protected him either failed to do so… or chose not to. Everyone." He met Hogan's eyes. "I will not be one more on that list, _Colonel_. I will not."


	31. Chapter 31

After all the work and the worry and the wondering and the waffling, the actual escape was almost an anticlimax. Monday night, ten men went out through the tunnel, scouted the terrain one last time, and came back to report. Tuesday night, with the aid of some rather decent sketch maps, each of those ten briefed the rest of their groups on their particular route, and the passwords their guides would be using. Wednesday night, they tucked their expertly forged German IDs into their beautifully tailored civilian jacket pockets. And Thursday morning, of course, all hell broke loose.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"The civvies are ready to go," Newkirk said. "And in fact, I wish they _would_ go. We need the bleeding space. Looks like the 'Arrods Christmas sale down there; I don't think we could jam in so much as an extra pocket square."

"They will look like one hundred and fifty fashion plates, I'm sure," said LeBeau. "Sam was getting very emotional about it."

"Sure was. We ended up with some revolting plaid ties that nearly made 'im quit the war then and there."

"What did you do to settle him down?" asked LeBeau.

"Promised that the lads would all keep their coats buttoned to conceal the ties as much as possible." Newkirk shrugged. "It was that or suggest that we only give the plaids to Scotsmen. Takes clothing much too seriously, that bloke does."

"Speaking of which—the men will all be leaving their uniforms behind. Perhaps you could help me find something fit to wear among the castoffs. My shirt is a disgrace."

"It certainly is; it'd be a pleasure to replace it for you. As for me, _I've_ got me eye on Crane's greatcoat. We're about the same size, and it's even got the right number of stripes on the sleeve. Mind you, after the potato sacks we were using for jackets last year, anything would be an improvement, but that coat looks nice and warm."

"Was he planning to leave it? We did not get many topcoats, and if the stripes are removed, it would not look very military."

"Bollocks to that. 'E's going 'ome day after tomorrow, whereas on the _very_ off chance that we're not all negotiating the loan of a blindfold, I'll be crawling into bed with you and Kinch. I say that's got to earn me _something._ 'E'll leave me that coat and _like_ it."

LeBeau laughed. "Actually, we will probably _not_ all be in the same bed. Once they have escaped, there will be a great deal more space. We may be able to each have our own bunks!"

"I'd not thought of that! Cor, that'll be a nice change. It'll seem like living in the lap of luxury."

"It will. _Bon Dieu_ ; my standards have fallen terribly over the course of this war. Those miserable straw mattresses should not be cause for celebration."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it; at least not until you start looking at the porridge, with the crunchy little black things we all pretend are raisins, and catch yourself licking your lips."

"You are right. There is always lower to fall."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"I'd heard that you were staying behind, but I hadn't quite believed it," said Hawkins, as he knotted an undeniably hideous plaid tie.

Newkirk was handing out the clothing; he'd drawn the job because there was too great a chance that Sam would find too many last-minute alterations that simply _needed_ to be made, and the entire escape would grind to a halt in a flurry of tailor's chalk and thread clippings. He was doing his best to stay professional as he got his most devoted enemy kitted up, but that didn't mean that Hawkins was getting one of the _nice_ neckties. Newkirk actually thought the fact that he hadn't 'accidentally' left a pin or two in strategic places was more benevolence on his part than the bastard deserved.

"Well, I considered escaping, but looked around and thought, 'And give up all this?' So no, I'll not be sending any change of address cards quite yet."

"Good," said Hawkins, as he exchanged his flight cap for a fedora. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather see in prison."

There are limits to a man's patience, to his capacity to swallow insults. There are limits to forbearance, to compassion. There are limits to understanding. There are even limits to guilt. And Newkirk hit all of them more or less simultaneously.

"And I can't think of anyone I'd rather see shot trying to escape, but you don't see me letting that get in the way of doing the job, now do you? You really need to 'ate me that badly? Go right ahead, chum. God knows no one else 'as ever lost anyone they cared about. Oh, no; just you. And, sure, I'm to blame. Why not? In fact, I orchestrated the entire war just to get at you. Everything bad as ever 'appened was my doing, all right? _I_ killed Jimmy. _I_ killed your mate Browning. It's all on me, and chances are I'll pay for it, no fear on that account. Is that what you wanted to 'ear? Are you finally satisfied?"

Hawkins, taken aback, let out a breath. He wasn't a cruel man, or, rather, he hadn't been, once. And perhaps he never would have been, if grief and fear and bitterness, compounded with prison air and hopelessness, hadn't warped him into something even he was finally forced to recognize as ugly and small. He tried to reach back into himself, tried to find the person Jimmy would have recognized as his brother. He really did try.

"No. It wasn't… it wasn't your fault," he said. "The damned tunnel would have collapsed on us, no matter who was or wasn't in there. It's just one more horrible thing to chalk up to a horrible war."

"Too bloody many 'orrible things to count already," Newkirk said softly. He brushed ineffectively at the lapels of his jacket, not noticing that he was doing it. It would have made no difference if he had. The bloodstains were long since washed away. The bloodstains would never leave him.

"No arguing with that," Hawkins agreed. He was silent for a long time, then, in a husky voice, said the one thing he'd never let himself admit. "And it's not your fault about Jimmy, either. Never was."

Newkirk's head snapped up at that. After more than a year of flat-out hostility and open recriminations, that was about the last thing he'd expected to hear. He stared at the other man.

Hawkins, steady as stone, met his gaze. "I'm a flyer, too," he said. "This is war. Men die. I knew that. I didn't want to admit it, but… I knew it. I'm sorry."

"Jimmy was a good'un," Newkirk said. "If I'd known that chute was dodgy, I'd've made 'im swap it for mine. I wish I _'ad_ done."

"I'm almost grateful you didn't," Hawkins said. Another thing he hadn't wanted to admit. "If you had, he'd be _here_. I wouldn't have wished that on him."

Newkirk looked away. "No," he said. "Neither would I."

Hawkins seemed to run out of words. "Well. See you in Berlin," he said finally. "Newkirk… make those bastards pay, all right? Make them pay for what they did to Jimmy."

"Oh, I intend to do just that," Newkirk replied, and watched as the other man vanished down the tunnel. They weren't friends. They would never be friends, and, in the unlikely event they ever met again, there would always be ghosts peering over their shoulders. They had hurt one another too deeply to heal cleanly, and there was too much bad blood between them. Forgiveness simply was not as easy as that.

But having one less enemy, Newkirk thought, was no bad thing.

*.*.*.*.*.*

On Thursday morning, the men assembled in front of their barracks for morning roll call with gaping holes in their ranks and smug smiles on their faces. There had not been a sound during the night. No alarms, no gunshots, no anything. They had even been able to cut the wires and get back to the barracks unseen, so perhaps the Krauts would not think to look for tunnels. And again—there had been no alarms, and no gunshots. There seemed a reasonable chance that the men had gotten away clean, or were at least in the process of getting away clean. The men were all justifiably delighted.

The Krauts were, again justifiably, not delighted at all.

They kept the men standing in formation all day. No food, no bathroom breaks, no anything but screaming and threats and assurances that the missing men would be found, immediately if not sooner, and that their previous experiences as prisoners of war would soon seem like a blissful dream.

Eventually, though, sometime after sunset, they were herded back into the barracks and locked in for the night. The guards were still combing the woods. Lange was still beside himself with fury.

And there was still no sign that the men were anywhere to be found.

The entire camp spent Friday confined to the barracks. It was quite boring, of course, and they had still not been fed, but, in any case, it was better than standing at attention all day. They passed some of the time working out their new sleeping arrangements. Newkirk stubbornly kept his perch nearest the door, with Olsen taking the bottom bunk. Kinch and LeBeau had the one perpendicular to his, with LeBeau on top, and Kinch below. If Newkirk's bed was the one in most danger of attracting German attention, Kinch's was the one in most danger, full stop. It concealed the entrance to their tunnel. Which meant not only that, if it was found, he couldn't exactly disavow knowledge of the hidden passageway, but also that he was trusting his full weight to the indifferently fitted slats of the bed. If they were to give way some night, he might have a rather long way to fall.

Late at night came the familiar squeal of the bolt being drawn back on the door to the barracks. Lange didn't bother with niceties such as knocking. Reeking of schnapps, and well past the point of worrying about his dignity, he just slammed the door open, snapped on the light, and bellowed "Achtung!"

The men, who had been sound asleep, scrambled out of their bunks as best they could. It was easier, now that they had the heretofore unthinkable luxury of an entire mattress apiece. Getting out of bed in such a way that they didn't need to dodge one another's elbows made waking up to the stentorian bellows of angry Nazis… actually, it was still entirely awful. But at least it was entirely awful without the need for elaborate, elbow-avoidance choreography.

When some sixteen men in a motley assortment of long underwear were ranged by the bunks, Lange staggered up and down the rows, giving each of them a jaundiced look somewhere between a sneer and a snarl. He stopped when he came to Hogan. "You did this to me," he said, almost conversationally. "Don't think I don't know it was all your doing."

"Kommandant, if I had anything to do with the escape, do you really think I'd still be here?" Hogan met his eyes with an assurance that not only approached insolence, but moved in next door and borrowed a cup of sugar. "I'm as appalled as you are!"

"Oh, spare me," said Lange. "You know and I know that you deliberately engineered this catastrophe to destroy me. I don't know what you have planned, or why you stayed behind, but I do know that, whatever it is, it will be disastrous for the Third Reich. I told them so. They didn't believe me, but I told them. My conscience is clear."

"Glad to hear it," said Hogan. "Nothing worse than a grimy conscience."

Lange laughed bitterly. "I actually hope you _do_ have something up your sleeve. If I am to die, at least I'll have the satisfaction of being proved right. And I hope you make my successor's life as much of a torment as I'd have liked to make yours."

"You should write greeting cards, Kommandant. That was sheer poetry."

"Burn in hell," said Lange, walking down the gauntlet of stone-faced men as he made his uneven way back to the door. "All of you. Preferably after a nice long visit with the Gestapo. Go to hell!"

"We already did," said Newkirk. "You'll notice it's not slowed us down too much."

"You," growled Lange. "I should have had the guards finish you off when I had the chance."

Newkirk's grin, sharklike and cold, got a bit wider. "You're right, Kommandant. You bloody well should've."

"Filthy cur. We had an agreement, did we not? You may have broken your word, but I could still keep mine."

"You know, I _knew_ there was something I'd forgotten to do," said Newkirk. "Next time I'll 'ave to tie a little string around me finger."

"A string around your finger. I should tie a rope around your _neck_." Lange laughed mirthlessly. "No matter. I'm sure my replacement will see to it in fairly short order. Let _him_ have the pleasure."

He didn't slam the door behind him, as anyone might have expected. He closed it with the exaggerated dignity of the extremely drunk, and banged the bolt back into place, leaving a heavy silence in its place.

Hogan let it percolate for a moment or two before asking, very quietly, "…And what agreement would this be, precisely?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: And exeunt Forrest, Richmond, et al. I'll rather miss them. If anyone was wondering, yes, they make it safely back to London. All 150 of them. Most of them went back to flying; there are no guarantees in battle, but I'm sure a fair number of them made it to the end of the war. In fact, perhaps, years later, when none of it had to be a secret anymore, Forrest and Richmond, as part of the legendary Papa Bear's first and arguably most impressive escape, were interviewed for a documentary on the subject. Perhaps they even sought out the filmmakers.


	32. Chapter 32

Newkirk met Hogan's eyes. "No agreement, sir. Threats, is all, and not even Lange could've been stupid enough to think it was anything more. Just a bully throwing 'is weight around."

"He threatened you into agreeing to something. And you didn't tell me about this." Hogan was clad in the same 'night uniform' as the men—namely, his skivvies; there was no real justification for looking as imposing as he in fact did.

"What was there to tell? Louie, remember the time the wind blew your beret right off your 'ead at roll call? What did Lange say when you went to chase it?"

"He said that… he said that the next time it happened he would nail it to my head."

"Right. And what about last winter? When we were shoveling three feet of snow off the roads at gunpoint? They swore they'd confiscate all our boots if we didn't speed up. Foxton once picked the wrong day to mouth off at chow call, and sir, I'm not even going to _tell_ you what the Kraut said 'e'd get poured down 'is throat if 'e didn't shut up. Being threatened with something awful is par for the bloody course around 'ere!"

"In which case there's no reason for this completely routine threat to stay a secret. Think of it as our bedtime story."

"Sir—you really don't need details. Lange wanted me to squeal if there was anything clandestine going on. I didn't. Because I _wouldn't_. What do the specifics matter now?"

"Apparently they matter quite a lot. Because you wouldn't be tap dancing around, trying to avoid giving me a straight answer if they didn't. Report, Corporal. Now!"

Newkirk's jaw set in a stubborn line. "Permission to be chewed out in private, sir?"

Hogan let out an exasperated breath, and opened his door. "Fine. The rest of you, go back to sleep. And stay away from the keyhole."

Newkirk nodded crisply and followed him in, closing the door behind them. Hogan glared at him. "I hate being kept in the dark. I really, really hate it. And you do more of it than any other five guys I've ever met. It. Stops. Now. Report!"

"…Yes, sir. This was a while back. Two blokes tried going over the wire. Me, I was in the cooler at the time, genuinely 'adn't known a thing about it, but Lange came to me cell anyway, and said 'e didn't want no more escapes. And that I was going to see to it that there weren't any."

Lynton and Cabot had been from Barracks Seven, and they had been in the camp long enough that they should have known better. Their escape had been almost spur of the moment, a half-cocked, damnfool all-or-nothing gamble. Cabot had gone badly wire-happy, which was probably why he'd been so hell bent on making a break for it. Lynton, by nature more cautious, had simply loved him too much to let him take the risk alone. They'd made it almost three feet beyond the line.

Their bullet-riddled bodies had been left where they'd fallen for nearly two full days. The rest of the men had gotten the message.

"So first off, 'e tried bribing me to rat on anyone planning a jaunt out of Germany. Promised me the moon and stars, too; anything I wanted, from better food to a ticket 'ome, if I played me cards right. Quite a generous offer, really."

"Which, presumably, you didn't take," Hogan said.

"Of course not. I told 'im where 'e could shove it. I think 'e expected that, because 'e just laughed, and said, if that was 'ow I wanted it, that was fine by 'im. No need for carrots when 'e'd plenty of sticks. Next time there was an attempt, 'e said, whether I was in it or not, if I didn't give warning, 'e'd make that first flogging look like a rap on the knuckles." He drew a deep, ragged breath. "If I got away, 'e'd pick one man from every barracks and give it to _them_ , instead. And if I ran, but got caught…"

Hogan waited a moment, then prodded, "Well? What would he have done?"

"If I got caught," Newkirk said bleakly, "'E'd drag me back to camp and make _me_ pick the men to take the punishment."

Hogan didn't say anything for a moment. "That's the real reason you volunteered for this detail, then, isn't it? Still playing fox?"

"No. It's not. I told you the truth about my reasons the _first_ time we 'ad this conversation, and nothing's changed. And if you're telling me you honestly think I'm that much of a ruddy saint you need your 'ead examined. But just for argument's sake, sure, maybe I'd've stayed—claimed I'd got cold feet or something, and stayed behind like a coward— but I never in this world would've offered to _work_ for you."

"But you _did_ offer to work for me, even knowing what Lange was going to do. What's that about?"

"I didn't know anything of the sort. I told you, I didn't take it too seriously. Louie was in the next cell over; for all I knew, Lange waited five minutes and gave 'im the same song and dance. Did it give me a nightmare or two? Of course it did! I didn't sleep too well the time Captain Werther threatened to break every bone in me 'ands for not saluting properly, either. What did you want? An itemized list of every nasty thing the Krauts ever said?"

"No. But this is a bit more… specific, don't you think? At the very least, it's something I needed to know and plan for."

"A fingersmith and a chancer? You'd've planned to get shut of me, either to save me if I stayed stumm, or to save the others if I cracked. Couldn't let that 'appen, now could I?" Newkirk shook his head. "There's work for me 'ere. I want to do it."

"You're slipping. Trying to work too many angles, and you're losing the thread. Fat lot of good you'd do me if Lange really did have you beaten to death."

"Even if 'e did, would you rather lose one man or twenty?"

" _Neither_ , damn it! What did you do when it happened? He seemed to think you were going along with it!"

"What do you _think_ I did? Cried like a baby and groveled like a dog! Krauts always love that. If I _was_ the only cat 'e was setting among the pigeons, so much the better, because I knew the day I so much as considered squealing was the day I'd do the world a favor and cut me own throat. And even if 'e didn't buy it, which, like I told you, I never thought 'e would, at least watching me beg might amuse 'im enough not to give me a lick or three then and there."

Hogan stifled a grimace; he didn't even want to _think_ about how humiliating that must have been. "You did, huh? I'd have thought you'd be the last man on earth to grovel to _anyone_. You certainly don't roll over for me."

"Well, sir. As to that…" Newkirk paused for a moment, then said simply, "I never figured you for the sort who'd want me to."

Hogan took a moment to digest that. "You figured right," he said, after a while. "God. Stephens really did send me to the right place."

"Stephens? Who's th—wait, you don't mean that bloke from the Red Cross? The one who promised to 'elp us and then scarpered off for tea? Nervous little chap who looks like 'e's just been starched and ironed? _That_ Stephens?"

"That's the one. He's not nearly as nervous as he lets on… and he didn't scarper anywhere. He's the one who arranged to have _me_ sent here."

Newkirk lifted an eyebrow. "Cor. What'd you ever do to 'im? Seduce 'is sister?"

"I wish. It's been a while. No, he was doing the rounds of the stalags, looking for a good place to set up a deep-cover intelligence unit. Our Underground contacts? He's the one who set them up; they're part of his network. This is a good location, but mostly I'm here because he thought you fellows here in Thirteen would be the right men for the job." Hogan nodded decisively. "I've already found a gray hair I didn't have before I came, and I'm holding you solely responsible for it, but Stephens wasn't wrong."

"Stephens. Blimey. 'Ard to believe _that_ bloke was a spy. Looked like 'e'd crumble to bits if anyone shook a disapproving finger in 'is general direction."

"I've got a feeling he counts on that."

"Not the worst strategy I've ever 'eard," Newkirk conceded. "It's all showbiz, really. People already know what they _want_ to believe; all they need from you is a nudge in the right direction. And they're usually grateful for the chance."

"What they want to believe, huh? Tell me the truth. How sure were you that Lange was bluffing? Honestly. Not what you wanted to think; how sure were you _really_?"

Newkirk found a rueful smile. "Most of the time, I really wasn't too worried. On me 'onor, I wasn't. It was just one more thing to carefully not think about, and I've 'ad a long time to practice. But, well... I will admit that at three in the morning… I may 'ave 'ad a doubt or two."

That rang true to Hogan's ear, and he nodded, accepting that.

Before the Colonel could say anything, though, Newkirk cocked his head, and a look of complete irritation crossed his face. Edging towards the door, he continued, "In fact, Colonel, I've been 'aving some terrible nightmares. All about moles sneaking around, listening to all our secret plans. Terrible stuff, I tell you, just—"

He jerked the door abruptly open; LeBeau stumbled in, with an empty glass pressed to his ear, a sheepish expression on his face, and Kinch on his heels.

"Just terrible," Newkirk finished, with an eye roll that more or less said it all. "Getting a drink of water, lads?"

Hogan ran a hand over his face distractedly. It was going to be a very long night, he could tell. "Look at it this way," he said. "It _does_ save you the trouble of having to repeat the whole story. Come on in, fellows."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Lange was escorted off the camp grounds the next day, to the raucous cheers of the men.

"This is a great occasion. There should be a twenty-one gun salute for the Kommandant," said Kinch.

"We did have beans for lunch," said Olsen, considering. "Perhaps we could arrange something?"

"Please. Not while I'm standing downwind," said Wilson.

"Not to worry," said Hogan. "Once he gets to the Russian front, there won't just be a measly twenty-one guns. More like twenty-one battalions."

"An 'onor I'd say 'e richly deserves," said Newkirk.

"I'm just sorry that we will not get the chance to see it," said LeBeau.

"We can imagine. Instead of counting sheep, tonight, count tanks barreling down on our good friend Lange. Sam was telling me 'ow to count in Russian. Say it with me, gents: **Odin, dva, tri** …"

"The real question is who they're going to get to replace him," said Hogan. "If we get a real martinet, we might have to start all over until we get the kind of Kommandant we can work around." He paced a few steps up and back. "I hate relying on chance, but all we can do is wait and see."

As if in answer, a sleek staff car pulled up to the gates and into the compound. The left-hand rear door opened, disgorging a man who was nearly as broad as he was tall, or, possibly, nearly as tall as he was broad, and with an expression of contemptuous anger on a jowly face which bulged from his overstuffed uniform like over-risen bread dough.

The men traded apprehensive looks.

"Do… do you think that's our new Kommandant?" asked Olsen, in the tones of one who desperately wanted to be told that he was wrong.

"Can't be," said Newkirk, staring at the man in fascinated revulsion. He was shouting at someone still in the car, and turning a bright cherry red in the process. Unbelievably, he swelled with anger, putting the already overworked buttons on his coat under additional strain. When they inevitably gave up the struggle, Newkirk thought, they'd probably fly in all directions like machine gun fire. "There's a good chance 'e _ate_ our new Kommandant, but not even we could be that unlucky three times running. Couldn't possibly."

"I think you're right," said Hogan, squinting. "Unless I'm misreading his insignia, that's a general. There's no way they'd sideline a general in a backwater toilet like Stalag Thirteen."

"Unless he has an enemy in Berlin," said Kinch. "This camp has already wrecked the careers of two Obersts, a couple of enlisted men—"

"And a partridge in a pear tree; I know. Maybe, but I bet that if he'd made someone _that_ angry, they'd have shot him or shipped him off to Russia," said Hogan.

"Which is what happened to Kommandants one and two, in that order," said LeBeau. "Oh, wait—someone else is getting out!"

Someone else did indeed get out of the car. He was a trim man in his late forties, with a monocle straight out of a comic operetta and a riding crop tucked under his arm. He trotted at the tubby general's heels, meekly accepting whatever tongue-lashing the man was giving him and agreeing whenever he could get a word in edgewise, until the door of the Kommandantur closed behind them.

Schultz had apparently drawn the short straw; he opened the trunk of the car and began unloading a great many suitcases. As he staggered along beneath them, with the resigned look common to all bellhops who have the sneaking suspicion that they will not be receiving a tip, Hogan blinked a couple of times, then turned to face the others.

"Gentlemen," he said formally. "I have a funny feeling that this is our lucky day."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: And another old comrade takes his leave of us. We're all going to miss good old Kommandant Lange, aren't we?

Don't worry. The Russians probably won't.


	33. Chapter 33

Three days later…

Hogan stifled a smile. The previous night's Kommandant Klink Look-Alike Contest had ended in a three-way tie; Newkirk had the voice down pat, they'd all agreed on that much, but Kinch had the mannerisms—especially after he'd had the idea to use his lucky half-dollar as a makeshift monocle. And Olsen had brought the house down, strutting around the barracks with a stick of stove wood under one arm and the other crooked behind his back.

Exactly the way Klink was doing now.

No, really. Exactly the way Klink was doing now. Olsen had it down to a _science_. It was positively uncanny.

They'd had a few chances to observe their new Kommandant's little peculiarities. Aside from his daily appearances at roll call, he'd made a point of visiting each and every barracks and doing almost a white-glove examination of each square inch. (He'd visited the mess hall once, gotten one good whiff of dinner, and promptly vacated the premises. The barracks were no picnic, but at least they were only depressing, not nauseating.) He'd marched around, with that stupid riding crop wagging behind him like a tail, and made pompous noises about the new regime he intended to institute. The iron discipline. The constant vigilance. There would, he had repeatedly announced, be no more escapes. Nothing would, and nothing could, escape the all-seeing eye of the Iron Eagle.

The fact that he was leaning against the bunk that concealed the tunnel entrance as he said that added a certain fillip to the rhetoric, but to the men's credit, they all maintained a perfect poker face.

Forcing his mind back to the present, Hogan caught up with him at the door of the Kommandantur, and smiled ingratiatingly. "Pardon me, Kommandant… I just wanted to speak with you for a moment…?"

"Colonel Hogan, I'm afraid that I'm very busy," said Klink. "Those of us on the _winning_ side of the war still have work to do. Come back some other time."

"I certainly will, Kommandant," said Hogan. _You can bet your monocle I will_. "But this will only take a minute. You see, I was hoping that you could contact the Red Cross—"

"Colonel Hogan, if this is about your packages, I already told you that they'll arrive whenever they arrive, and harassing me will not make them come any faster. Disssssmissed."

That drawn-out hiss on the first syllable of the word was going to get very tiresome, very quickly, Hogan mused. "I understand that, and I wasn't here to ask about the packages," he said. "No, I'm sure that you've got that well in hand already. But I was hoping that you might contact them with regards to our unif—"

"Hogan, I really don't have time to stand around gossiping with you. Dissssssssssmissed."

"Kommandant, the men's uniforms are so threadbare that you could read a newspaper through them. Corporal Davis has a tattoo on his left arm with his wife's name on it, and he didn't have to roll up his sleeves to show it to me. All I'm asking is that you get the Red Cross to send us some fresh clothes before this place starts looking like a nudist colony."

"Fresh clothes, eh? Perhaps you mean _civilian_ clothing? Why not ask them to send shovels and wire cutters while they're at it? This is a plot to escape. I can read you like a book, and, Colonel Hogan, I can tell you that your little scheme is not going to work. You may have run rings around that idiot Lange, but you won't make a fool of _me_. Request denied. Disssmissed!"

Yup. Very, _very_ tiresome. "Kommandant, if anyone tried to escape in what they're wearing now, even if he wasn't recaptured as an escaping prisoner, he'd be arrested for indecent exposure. Lange may not have cared about keeping his prisoners healthy, but I'm sure that you don't want the men—no, these _boys_ , these unfortunates in rags and tatters, who look to you for their very lives, to suffer needlessly."

Klink stopped, furrowed his brow. Listening.

Hogan lay it on thicker. "No, I've heard them whispering to one another in the barracks at dusk, saying, Kommandant Klink, a true son of Germany—our last hope!—with the firm hand and cool head of all great military men… he will prove that he can be as magnanimous as he is valiant."

Klink preened. "Well… I'll think about it," he said. "In the meantime, I really do have work to do this afternoon… and so do you, in fact. All prisoners must report to their barracks for a special roll call. Run along."

Hogan appreciated being sent to his room like a naughty kindergartener about as much as any grown man with even a modicum of pride could be expected to. "A special roll call? What for?"

Klink rolled his eyes. "Mail delivery. Surely you don't expect my men to chase after you. No, from now on, we will have iron discipline! Once everyone is in their correct position, the letters will be distributed, and not a moment earlier. I don't know what sort of sloppy procedure your ex-Kommandant used, but I tell you that I run a tight ship! There will be no nonsense or inefficiency in _my_ camp—"

"Yes, yes, very efficient. I'll just run along," said Hogan, with a sketchy fingers-to-forehead gesture that might, generously, have been classified as a second cousin to a salute. Mail delivery! Lange's postal procedures had involved lit matches; Hogan was painfully aware that none of his men had received word from home since being brought into the camp. Hogan himself, with only a few months of captivity under his belt, was better off than most, and even he was desperate for contact with his family. He could scarcely imagine how the old-timers must feel.

Mail delivery was going to be a morale-booster that just might top even the residual pleasure of the presumably successful escape they had pulled off. Hogan could hardly believe that he was feeling almost grateful to a Kraut, but there it was.

Had Klink genuinely not realized that the prisoners had not been receiving their mail? Hogan had assumed that reinstituting mail call would take weeks if not months of horse-trading; Klink's spontaneous, matter of course restoration of the privilege, no bartering required, was actually throwing Hogan a bit off balance. Sure, they had a _right_ to their mail… but why was that right suddenly being honored?

Was this balding buffoon being unexpectedly humane, or was he simply naive? Either one was good, so far as Hogan was concerned, but he needed to know which it was. If Klink had a streak of decency in him, he could, perhaps, be worked with. If he was just that dumb, he could be worked around. Two very different situations, which would require two very different strategies. Hogan didn't know which way to jump, and he needed to.

And, he decided, he'd get down to figuring it all out. Right _after_ he finished reading his mail four or five times.

Well, maybe six. But then it would be right back to work, and no fooling around.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Standing in formation usually ranked fairly low on the men's list of 'fun ways to spend an afternoon,' and their behavior usually reflected that. A man could express a lot of resentment via body language or dirty looks while standing woodenly in straggly rows, and that was without the muttered commentary that so often livened up the proceedings. The one that afternoon was different. The men were dead silent and standing tautly at attention; no one wanted to be responsible for nipping this bolt-from-the-blue generosity on Klink's part in the bud with an ill-timed witticism.

They just stood there. Waiting to see what was going to happen. Telling themselves not to expect too much, and then doing it anyway. Watching the guards slowly shuffling through the opened envelopes, half praying that some of those envelopes would be for them… and half afraid to know what would be written inside them.

The old-timers were at once the most hopeful and the most hopeless—after months or years of silence, they could not be blamed for being frantic to know how things were for their families back home. By the same token, however, after months or years of silence, their families could not be blamed for losing hope… and ceasing to write letters that were so obviously not being received.

One hundred and fifty men—roughly a third of the camp's population—had escaped less than a week before. This meant that roughly a third of the letters in the canvas sacks went unclaimed, which did not speed up the agonizing process.

They just stood there as, one by one, their names were called. The lucky ones took their letters with something akin to reverence; the rest watched as, one by one, the canvas sacks were emptied and thrown aside.

And to make a long story short, about three quarters of the men received at least one letter. In addition, everyone was issued two sheets of writing paper, each hut was given a communal pencil, (and a stern warning that those pencils were the property of the Third Reich, and would not be replaced unless and until the barracks chief could show the stub of the previous pencil, because most bureaucrats take it as an article of faith that there is never a bad time to be a petty, small-minded tyrant,) and they were informed that outgoing mail would be collected once a week for processing and censoring, and incoming mail would be distributed as and when it was delivered, and strictures on appropriate language were as follows. And don't even think about trying to send coded messages, because the cryptography boys were much to clever to be fooled. And another thing...

But all good things must come to an end, and so too must even the most longwinded of speeches. The men, once safely dismissed, scattered. The lucky ones went looking for places to read in private. The rest varied by temperament. Some went looking for private places to lick their wounds; others began jockeying for immediate possession of the pencil. Some went for a walk around the camp until they felt they had regained their composure; others couldn't quite manage to regain it in time.

Newkirk didn't do any of those things. He sat nonchalantly down on a bench and rummaged in his pocket for his deck of cards. "Who's up for a game, then?"

LeBeau hadn't gotten anything either. He had his arms wrapped around himself as if for warmth, and, slowly, looked up. " _Mon ami_ … this is not the time."

"Why not? Seems like the perfect time. Come on. I'll spot you an ace."

"Stop it. Just stop it! I know you are as upset as I that we did not get mail; do you think you are fooling me? Put down the cards!"

"I'm not trying to fool anyone. And I wasn't expecting anything. Who'd be writing to me? Mavis is likely dead, and if she isn't, after the better part of three years, she must think _I_ am. No sense in wasting a stamp on a corpse."

"So write to her! Tell her that you are alive!"

"I'm not that cruel," he said. "If she's done 'er grieving once, once is enough. Pulling a Lazarus on the poor girl's not on, not when me odds are what they are."

LeBeau snorted. "Now you are only trying to fool yourself. You insist she is dead, because you are afraid to find out for certain if she is alive. Afraid to hope for anything. So you leave her in fear, and hide behind the pretense that it is she you are protecting, and not yourself. We both know better. Coward."

"Never claimed to be anything but. Shall we 'ave that card game now?"

LeBeau had been spoiling for a fight since he'd fallen through Hogan's door. He was upset. He was hurt. He was raw from having his hopes raised and dashed during the long morning. And he was simultaneously afraid for his friend and tired of being afraid, tired of being understanding. Tired of being wrapped in cotton wool.

"To hell with your games. You treat me the same way you treat your sister—like something fragile and weak. You use protecting others as an excuse to be cruel to those who care about you. This is madness, _mon ami_. Surely you see that!"

"All I see is that you're picking a fight over nothing. I'm being cruel, am I? Tell me more. I'm bloody fascinated!"

"You were going to send me away," said LeBeau. "You were going to _lie_ to me, so I would escape and leave you behind."

"I made no bones about the fact that I wanted you to go back 'ome. Where do you see any lies in that?"

"You never told me about Lange. You never told me that you would be killed if I were to escape. A lie of omission is still a lie!"

"Leave off! I didn't know anything for sure about what might 'appen, and neither did you. And besides. Even if I _was_ in for a bit of a bad time, what of it? Would you rather 'ave stayed to watch?" He made a sarcastic gesture. " _Again?_ "

"I would _rather_ you stopped treating me like a delicate flower! I would _rather_ you got it through your thick skull that you are not the only person in the world who is capable of caring about his friends!"

"Louie, if you're waiting for me to apologize for trying to spare you a turn in the barrel, you're just wasting your time. I'm not sorry."

"No. I know that you are not sorry. However, I _am._ I am sorry that you still don't think of me as someone who can be trusted."

"It's not about trusting or not trusting! For God's sake, mate—what choice did I really 'ave? Would _you_ just leave someone else to take the fall?"

"Of course not! Which is why I cannot understand why you seem to think that I would!" LeBeau was holding on to his English with his last shreds of self-control. "Why do you refuse to accept that I am on your side? Do you not yet realize that you are not the only one who would not want the consequences of his actions to fall on the shoulders of a friend?"

"I know that! Which is why you were never supposed to know about any of this! I didn't want you fretting over me; not then, not ever! I'm more than capable of taking care of meself."

"You? You, _mon pote?_ Don't make me laugh. Perhaps you _can_ take care of yourself—perhaps you could if you wanted to—but the fact is that you _don't!_ You never have! Do you not understand how hard that is for the rest of us to bear? How hard that is for _me_ to bear?"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," said Newkirk after a moment. "I'll see you right whether you like it or not; that's my business, and no taking turns about it. If I'm too 'ard for you to bear, then don't bother trying. What else can I say?"

The anger drained out of LeBeau's face, leaving only an exhausted sort of resignation. "Forget it," he said. "You are who you are. I should be used to it by now." He shrugged. "You are my friend, whether you choose to believe it or not, and it is not because you have appointed yourself as guard dog and designated martyr. Perhaps someday that will mean something to you. If that day is not today, all I can do is wait."

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Newkirk staring after him, poleaxed.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: This is another one of those scenes where I'm not sure for whom I feel sorriest. Poor guys.


	34. Chapter 34

"I need volunteers for a trip into town," said Hogan.

"Town? Town, as in, 'the place where they keep all the civilian things'? The place where they have girls? And beer? And real food? And girls?" Olsen's eyes lit up. "I volunteer!"

"You said 'girls' twice," said Kinch.

"Yes, and _only_ twice. The lad's new yet," said Newkirk. "I'll go, Colonel. I've all but forgotten what birds look like."

Kinch chuckled. "Seriously, though… I don't suppose there's any point in _me_ volunteering, is there, Colonel?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid," said Hogan. "I'm meeting a contact in the middle of town. Sorry."

LeBeau looked thoughtful. "Actually… might it be possible for me to come? I could perhaps purchase a few supplies while we are there. It would allay suspicion; after all, who would think a spy would stop to buy greens?"

Hogan hesitated. On the one hand, no one in the history of espionage had ever compiled a to-do list combining 'contact Underground agent' and 'buy vegetables,' and there was a damned good reason for that. On the other hand, Wilson had recently warned him that scurvy was quietly wreaking havoc throughout the camp, and something was going to have to be done about it. And on yet another hand, this jaunt into town was as close to low-risk as anything they were ever going to undertake was going to get, and an army traveled on its stomach. The better the men were fed, the happier they'd be.

"All right, LeBeau," he said. "Newkirk and I will go see my contact, and you can do your shopping. We've got more enough Reichmarks to cover a few essentials; might as well live a little. Take Olsen with you; his German's better than yours and he'll come in handy to carry the shopping bags. We'll all rendezvous outside of town and come back together."

Olsen looked less than thrilled with his assignment. "Yes, but… Colonel, I don't know much about French cooking. Why don't _I_ go with _you_ , and Newkirk and LeBeau could get the food? His German's good enough to dicker with the greengrocer. And he'd be great at carrying shopping bags."

"Two reasons. No matter how little you know about French cooking, I'm pretty sure Newkirk knows less. For another, I want all of you to get used to working with everyone, not just your best buddies." Three reasons, actually; Hogan wasn't quite sure that the two corporals were currently best buddies at all. They seemed to have had one of their periodic spats, judging by the uncomfortable silences and stiff body language. But that wasn't Olsen's business, and, really, unless and until it interfered with their work, it wasn't Hogan's either.

"Yes, sir," said Olsen, reproved. "Grocery shopping it is."

"Good man," said Hogan. "Newkirk, is there enough civilian clothing for us all? I know there wasn't much left."

Newkirk scratched his head. "We'll need to rummage a bit. I _think_ we can outfit the four of us with what we've got left in the wardrobe… but it won't be pretty."

"Do the best you can," Hogan said. "We don't need to look like movie stars. So long as we _don't_ look like escaped prisoners, I'll be happy."

Twenty minutes later, Hogan decided that 'happy' might possibly have been overstating the case a bit. Nearly every piece of non-military clothing in camp had gone to England, and the few remaining items had mostly been rejected for good reasons. Hogan himself was wearing an eye-wateringly ugly brown sweater and scratchy dark trousers with some very unfortunate stains, and none of the others were much better off. Newkirk's gray work shirt and patched dungarees were anything but fashionable, Olsen's jacket looked as though he'd borrowed it from a scarecrow, and LeBeau could only hope that no one would get close enough to notice that his outfit had been hastily shortened via the copious use of safety pins. Sam had nearly cried at the sight.

"We look like we should be standing in line at the soup kitchen," said Olsen uneasily. "Won't we kind of stand out in a crowd?"

Hogan shook his head and grinned as reassuringly as possible. "There's a war on, and plenty of people will look worse. No one will pay us any attention at all. We'll be fine."

Famous last words.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"Let me get this straight," Hogan said. "You want us to just waltz into Gestapo Headquarters this afternoon and get this guy out? Just like that?"

Their contact, a German Underground agent who went by the code name 'Jack Horner,' could not be bothered sugarcoating the truth. He glowered at Hogan.

"Colonel Hogan, I realize that this is short notice, but the Gestapo didn't exactly give us a great deal of advance warning that they were going to capture one of our key agents," said Horner.

"I get that. But you do realize that if we just go snooping around in there, all that's going to happen is that the Gestapo will have grabbed _three_ agents, instead of one."

"This man knows our names, our associates, our codes… he knows everything about everyone. Including you. If the Nazis break him, they'll have the rest of us rounded up by nightfall. And forgive me for mentioning it, Colonel, but seeing as how you and your men are already in German custody, you'll be the first ones they take in for questioning. You've nothing to lose by trying to save him." He gave Hogan a hard look. "And you're the only one who has even a hope of getting him out."

"Not much of one," Hogan said, shaking his head. "I'd have a better chance if I hotfooted it back to camp to get my men out before he talks. We could start again somewhere else. You and yours should evacuate, too."

"Can't be done. We've got too many links in the chain, and too many irons in the fire. We might be able to save ten or twenty lives, but it would be at the cost of as many hundreds if not thousands. We need to get Stephens back, or we need him silenced. There's no third option."

"How am I even supposed to get into the joint? Do you have plans of the building? The security setup? Anything? Getting into a Gestapo prison isn't as easy as all that!"

"Sure it is," Newkirk said, with a grim smile. "Easiest thing in the world. It's getting _out_ again that's the trick."

"Newkirk, that's not helpful. If—" Hogan started as the idea came to him, immediate and glittering. It was not a good idea, or a pleasant idea, but it was the only one he had. Perhaps, he thought desperately, if he worked out the details, he could come up with a better one along the way. "Newkirk… if we _did_ get into the prison, do you think you could jimmy the door locks?"

"Sight unseen?" Newkirk thought about it. "Probably. Don't know 'ow fast. I can't guarantee anything, of course, not without knowing what sort of locks they're using. But I'm willing to give it a go."

"Fair enough. Horner—can you get your mitts on Kraut uniforms? Any service branch, but preferably an officer. And a… a set of cuffs."

"I have an Abwehr captain's uniform," Horner offered. "Will that do?"

"Perfectly," Hogan said, taking a deep breath. "Now. If Herr Kapitan Hoganberg of the Abwehr were to go to Gestapo HQ, carting along a prisoner he'd captured outside of town, do you think they would be willing to lend him a cell for an hour or two while he waited for instructions from his superiors?"

Horner's eyes went wide. "I… I suppose they might," he said slowly. "And you'd certainly be in a good position to find out precisely where Stephens is being held, but what then?"

Newkirk's face was unreadable. "If the poor unlucky bastard in the cuffs is wearing the same clothes on the way out as 'e did on the way in, there's a good chance that the guards won't look too closely at 'is face. Is that about the size of it, sir?"

Hogan nodded tightly. "We toss you in the clink. I distract the guard somehow, you break into Stephens' cell, the two of you trade clothes. We put him in your cell, Horner here gets on the blower and gives me my orders, I come back for 'my' prisoner, and march Stephens out of there."

"Colonel Hogan, are you out of your mind?" Horner spluttered. "We need Stephens, true, but a one-for-one swap like this is worse than useless!"

"Give me some credit! I'm not going to leave him there—"

They argued hotly for a few minutes longer, until Horner, outmaneuvered if not convinced, agreed that Hogan's plan would be enacted precisely as designed. There was never much use in arguing with Hogan, and Horner was neither the first nor last to learn as much.

Newkirk didn't say a word.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan re-entered the room, resplendent in his borrowed uniform. Newkirk was bent over the table, tinkering arcanely with the handcuffs which Horner, reluctantly, and with a few sidelong and vaguely pitying looks, had produced from the depths of a desk drawer.

"Newkirk… I just wanted to go over the details one last time."

"No need, sir; I've got it. We're pulling a pigeon drop. Can't really go too far wrong with the classics."

"A pigeon drop? This routine has a name? And here I thought I'd come up with something original."

"Nothing new under the sun, I'm afraid. Although usually you're swapping out money or the like, not blokes, so there's a chance the Krauts won't tumble to the con. Best 'ope that none of them ever read Dickens, is all. I just need a few more minutes with these," Newkirk said. "These cuffs aren't gaffed, and I'm not going anywhere until they are."

"Gaffed? What's that mean? Is this a lengthy process?"

"Fixing the lock so they come off without a key. It'll only take a few minutes."

"Newkirk, we don't _have_ a few minutes. We've got to go."

Newkirk didn't even look up from his delicate task. "All due respect, sir, but you're not going to be the one wearing them. And if things go sour, there won't be time for keys. I'm _gaffing_ the bleeding _cuffs_."

Hogan bit his tongue; even this brief delay was killing him, but Newkirk wasn't wrong. It _would_ be better this way, his belly full of butterflies notwithstanding. "You're right," he said. Fair was fair. "But make it quick."

Newkirk just nodded, and kept working. He was still in the shabby outfit he'd arrived in, but he'd smeared some dirt strategically across his face while Hogan was changing his clothes, and accentuated it with a small trickle of blood near his hairline. He _looked_ as though he'd come in second in a tussle. The contrast between his disguise and Hogan's could not have been greater if they'd hired a theatrical costumier to do the work.

Hogan watched him for a moment. "You _do_ know I'm not going to leave you there."

"You will if you 'ave to," said Newkirk flatly. "And we both know it. That's war."

"No. I'm not Weston."

"True. You're playing for 'igher stakes than 'e ever even thought of. This isn't about a couple of mangy prisoners anymore, and, if you don't get Stephens away safe, we're all dead anyway." He gave the lock mechanism a last few experimental pokes, and nodded, pushing them across the table to Hogan. "There," he said. "Better than new, at least from our perspective. And just so you know, I wouldn't've gone along with any of this if I didn't think you'd do your best for us all in the long run. Whether or not I'm there to see it."

Hogan took a deep breath. "All right; we can have this argument when we get back to camp. Are you ready for this?"

"Not in the least," Newkirk said. "Let's get on with it before I come to me senses." He held out his hands.

Hogan snapped the doctored cuffs on his wrists. "Remember—no heroics. We want to save this guy if we can, but if silencing him is the best we can do, so be it. Don't take any more risks than you have to."

" _Now_ 'e tells me." Newkirk found a lopsided grin. "No heroics, eh? No bleeding risks? Colonel, are you trying to be funny?"

"I have no idea," Hogan said, and straightened his cap. "Ask me tomorrow, when I can pretend that this whole miserable dog and pony show was just a nightmare."

"Will do, sir," Newkirk said. He hesitated for a moment, then finished the thought. "And, sir? Best of British luck… Guv'ner."

"You too," Hogan said in a brusque voice that did precisely nothing to disguise some very non-brusque emotions. _Titles have to be earned._ "And American luck, as well."

"I'd even take German luck if I 'ad to," Newkirk said. "Shall we?"

Hogan swallowed a lump of pure nerves that had somehow wedged itself in the back of his throat. "Yeah. Horner found us a staff car that probably wasn't stolen from anywhere close enough that they'd be looking for it, so at least we don't have to hotwire our own."

"Good. Do you even know 'ow to do that?"

"Nope. You'll have to teach me, one of these days. Say, Newkirk?"

"Yes, sir?"

Hogan, unexpectedly, found himself at a loss for words; he fell back on the time-honored strategy of borrowing some from a previous conversation. "Well… like you said about names and titles. I can call you 'Newkirk' because it's your name, or I can call you 'Corporal' because you've got stripes on your sleeve. What do I call you because you're the sort of man I'm glad to have on my side?"

Newkirk didn't say anything for a moment, just looked down at his bound hands as a bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked up, met Hogan's eyes. "'Ow in 'ell would I know?" he asked softly. After another moment, he said, almost under his breath, "Louie just calls me Pierre."

Hogan suppressed a wince, and tried not to think about the increasingly glaring fact that the scars the Krauts had left on his corporal's body were small potatoes when compared to those a harsh life had left on his soul, long before he'd ever stepped foot onto German soil. This wasn't the time or place to fix any of that—it was tomorrow's task, and his job for today was making sure that they _had_ a tomorrow—but, one way or another, he promised himself that he would fix it if it could be fixed.

"Well, that's no good," said Hogan. "My French accent is crap. But I'll come up with _something_."

Newkirk looked away. "No matter. Just don't call me late to dinner. Come on; the sooner we get me into the nick, the sooner we can get your mate Charles Darnay _out_ of it."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The 'pigeon drop' really is a classic con. It involves, essentially, asking the mark to hold on to something valuable of yours for a brief while, bundling it with the mark's own possessions; this bundle is then secretly swapped for a worthless lookalike. The con artist then promises to return as soon as possible for his valuables, and, needless to say, vanishes into the mists of time, leaving the mark sadder, poorer, and, one could hope, a bit wiser.

Newkirk's use of the name 'Charles Darnay' rather than 'Stephens' isn't an error; it's a reference to a Dickens character whose life is saved using this selfsame ruse in 'A Tale of Two Cities.' Darnay is a typically perfect cardboard stereotype of a romantic hero. The man who takes his place on the scaffold is a despairing English ne'er-do-well. Subtle, ain't I?


	35. Chapter 35

Getting into a Gestapo prison really was the easiest thing in the world, as it turned out. Hogan postured and sneered as malevolently as he could, and the Master Race ate it up with a spoon. Ja, ja, he was Kapitan Weiss; this piece of filth was a criminal, a smuggler, and probably a traitor to the Fatherland as well; they hadn't decided yet if that last was entirely necessary. His identity papers were almost certainly forged, but no matter; he had no doubt that there would be time for proper introductions at a later date. He, Weiss, intended to see to it personally, but just at this moment, he needed to contact his superiors with regards to a spot of trouble he had encountered along the way. Might it be possible for them to kennel his stray for an hour or so?

But of course! In the spirit of cooperation and goodwill between the service branches, they were delighted to be of assistance to the Abwehr. They only hoped that the Abwehr would remember the courtesy, and repay it by sharing any information extracted over the course of the interrogation. In fact, they stood ready to assist in that respect here and now; might the services of their finest men be of use to the Kapitan, burdened as he was with the aforementioned spot of trouble?

Newkirk kept his shoulders hunched, his eyes hooded, and his head down, trying to look as nondescript as possible. He said nothing; God only knew what sort of voice Stephens had been using or what sort of accents he could reproduce. Looking apprehensive was not especially difficult under the circumstances. Neither was shuddering.

Hogan fielded that one with a regretful little chuckle that neatly masked a wave of sudden nausea. Alas, that pleasure would need to be postponed until a later hour. He had been solemnly charged to deliver the prisoner precisely as he stood; a new interrogation technique was being perfected. They needed test subjects of little strategic importance and reasonable pain tolerance; any and all intelligence obtained would of course be forthcoming. If he could prevail upon his gracious hosts to show their guest to a room?

He could. They did.

The cells weren't as bad as Hogan had been expecting. They were worse.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Olsen shifted the strap of his bag from his right hand to his left; it was getting quite heavy, but since he was getting quite hungry, he didn't mind too much. He hadn't seen this much food in one place in months.

"What else did you want?" he asked LeBeau in an undertone. "That cheese looks pretty good."

LeBeau glanced at it; a mediocre Hirtenkase. "Perhaps," he said noncommittally, and began examining the other cheeses in the stall. "You like cheese, eh?"

"Some kinds, anyway," Olsen said. "That one smells like dirty socks; let's not get any of that. I don't suppose there's much point in asking for American cheese, right?"

"None whatsoever, since I would not allow that travesty into my kitchen even if it were here," said LeBeau, with a jaundiced sidelong glance, putting the maligned Limburger back on the shelf. "I really must teach all of you what real cuisine is supposed to taste like."

Olsen, unfazed, pushed it a little further away from him. "Say, while I'm thinking of it. It we bought some spaetzle noodles or something, do you think you could make macaroni and cheese? My mom used to make that for us all the time."

"Are you _trying_ to torture me?"

*.*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk opened the cell door in something under twelve seconds. Either he had been especially motivated, spelled S-C-A-R-E-D, he thought, or the Nazis had been royally cheated by whoever they had installing their locks. Possibly both. He let himself out, closed the door, and hurried down the corridor, peering through the tiny observation windows as he went. Two empty cells, an older man, another empty cell, and bingo!

Opening the lock from the outside was even easier than the inside had been. He tipped his cap and nodded an only slightly manic greeting to the man on the cot.

"Allo, there," he said. "Mr. Stephens, I presume. Remember me? Fancy meeting you 'ere, lovely weather we've been 'aving, long time no see, 'ow's the wife and family? And now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, 'urry up and undress. We've not much time."

Stephens blinked. It had been a very long couple of days. Very long indeed. They hadn't featured a great deal in the way of food, water, warmth, or sleep, and what they had lacked in basic amenities, they had made up for with physical abuse. In short, he was weak, exhausted, groggy, and well aware that he wasn't functioning at anywhere near his top capacity. That said, he was almost certain that introduction would have sounded equally strange at any time. "…What?"

Newkirk threw his shirt and cap onto the cot. "I said, take off your kit. Drop trou. Strip. Go _au naturel_. Remove your fig leaf. Give me your clothes. And for God's sake, 'urry up!"

Stephens, confused but obedient, began unbuttoning his shirt. "May I ask why?"

"Because you'll look a lot more like me if you're not dressed like a door to door insurance salesman," Newkirk snapped, kicking off his trousers. "Put these on!"

Stephens did. The fit was, to be charitable, approximate, but he rolled up the cuffs of the trousers a bit and used the belt to hide the fact that he could not fasten the waistband. Newkirk's hat, which Stephens pulled well down over his eyes to hide as much of his silvering hair as possible, provided the finishing touch. Shoes were the biggest problem; Stephens' neat brown loafers didn't look much like Newkirk's worn army-issue clodhoppers, and the difference in sizes had been considerable. Stephens had the option of stuffing the toes with a wadded-up handkerchief, but Newkirk could hardly wedge his feet into the shoes. The story of Cinderella, and, more specifically, the ugly stepsisters, who cut off their toes in a vain effort to fool the prince, came to mind.

The end result was not quite everything that could have been desired, but with a little luck, it would pass muster. Under the circumstances, Stephens thought, he'd take it… and he thought he recognized his rescuer, now that his head was clearing a bit. He felt the corner of his mouth curling upwards for the first time in three days. "You're not Goldilocks," he murmured. "But I'd bet my pension you're one of the bears, aren't you?"

"No names," Newkirk said, as he hitched up Stephens' trousers, which were doing their best to escape, exposing a good two inches of bony ankle in the process. He used his knife to poke a new hole in Stephens' belt, and tightened it. "And porridge makes me ill. Now, come along. Cell number eight, just down the corridor a bit, and I'll lock you in nice as you please. Just curl yourself up till 'e comes for you, and when 'e does, keep your 'ead down and don't say anything if you can 'elp it. They might recognize your voice."

"I won't. Until _who_ comes for me?"

"Who do you think? No names. 'E'll be dressed like an Abwehr captain, and 'e'll get you back to that little cottage in the woods. You'll be safe with 'im. Always got a brilliant plan, 'e does, and usually two more in 'is back pocket if the first one comes a cropper. You'll be fine."

"But if I leave with him, how are you going to get out?"

"Out of the cell? Same way I got in. Out of the building? In a Kraut uniform, as like as not. Out of me mind? In about ten seconds, unless you stop asking bloody _questions!_ " Newkirk's eyes were a bit wild. "Look. It's simple. We switch places. The Guv will come back and retrieve you, pretending to be me. I will stay 'ere, pretending to be you, long enough for the two of you to get away. At which point the imitation you, meaning me, will stage a brilliant escape, and we all meet up at the rendezvous for tea and biscuits. Got it?"

"Understood. You probably shouldn't wait very long before executing that brilliant escape. "

"If it's all the same to you, could you kindly not use the word 'execute' more than you absolutely must?" Newkirk said. "Oh. And the most important thing. Limp. Just a bit. Left leg. Like this. If you give the peelers something to notice, they usually don't bother noticing anything else. So left leg, all right?"

"You've put some thought into this," Stephens said. "As I believe I said once before, you're quite the actor, whichever version of you is the real one. _Is_ this the real one?"

Newkirk quirked a wry eyebrow. "Not a clue. For today it is, I suppose."

"Fair enough. Been in the game for a while, haven't you?"

"In _a_ game. Probably not the one you're thinking of. Give me your 'ands." When Stephens extended them, Newkirk snapped on the cuffs. "Now, don't you worry about these; they're tame. If you need to, just push that little button, and off they come. I wish I 'ad a weapon to give you, but all I've got is the one knife, and I'll be needing it meself if things don't go according to plan. Sorry."

"No apologies necessary. Thank you," said Stephens, examining the lock.

"Don't mention it. Look, I'll cover for you until you're out of the building, if I can. If they come for you, which is to say me, sooner than that and spot the difference, they'll raise the alarm, but that's the chance we'll 'ave to take. My advice is, don't dawdle on your way out of town."

"Certainly not. What about you, though?" Stephens was a realist. His own capture and interrogation would have been catastrophic for the Underground and intelligence service as a whole; he simply knew too much to be allowed to talk. Newkirk's appearance had not been entirely a surprise; he'd expected as a matter of course to be slipped a razor blade or cyanide capsule, if his colleagues could get someone into the building, or to utilize his belt if they could not. In his line of work, death was too familiar a danger to be especially frightening, but he hadn't precisely been looking forward to it, either. A rescue was a decidedly pleasant surprise.

Which was not to say that leaving someone else to be tortured in his stead was in any way acceptable to him.

Newkirk just shrugged. "I won't be stopping along the way for a pie and a pint, if that's what you're asking. Come on!"

Somewhat to his bemusement, five minutes later, Stephens found himself in cell number eight, wearing an ill-fitting and somewhat fragrant outfit that had seen, not just better days, but, in all likelihood, better years if not decades, and waiting to be rescued by a man he had personally recruited into the intelligence game and promptly stationed in a prison not much better than the one in which he was currently residing.

He thought that he could be pardoned for finding the whole business a bit bizarre. What a war.

But it went like clockwork. Precisely fifteen minutes after the switch, the door was flung open, and Hogan, decked out in a convincingly authentic captain's uniform, stepped into the cell. He smiled in a nasty way, and in German-inflected English he said, "Hello again, my friend. I hope you have not made yourself too comfortable; we have quite a journey still ahead of us."

Stephens hunched his shoulders, kept his head down. The temptation to growl something Cockney-inflected and impolite was overwhelming, and, he suspected, would have been very much in character for the man he was impersonating, but heroically, he resisted the urge. No sense in embroidering his role too lavishly, especially when the entire point of this little charade was to be unmemorable, and treated as ambulatory furniture. But he would have _liked_ to.

"I hope my little guest has not dirtied your cell too badly, Herr Major," Hogan said, with a cruel little chuckle. "If you find it is necessary to have it fumigated, do send the bill to me."

The German laughed at that; Hogan used the moment of distraction to propel Stephens to his other side, putting himself between the Major and the man he was supposed to be guarding before anyone could get too good a look at the prisoner in question.

"A pleasure to meet you, Kapitan Weiss," said the Major. "Feel free to come by any time; I would be happy to offer the hospitality of the Reich to any visitors you care to bring me."

"I didn't doubt it for a moment," Hogan said, with a tight smile. "My thanks, sir."

He didn't say anything else as they were escorted past the other cells; not so much as looking at any of them, not even the one containing a man in an ill-fitting brown suit, lying sprawled on the cot with an arm over his eyes. He stayed silent as they went up the stairs and out of the building. Not until they were in the staff car and on the main road did Hogan drop his persona.

"Hello, Stephens," he said, with a cheerful joviality that almost, almost, reached his eyes. "I happened to be in the neighborhood, and thought it might be nice to catch up."

"And you've no idea how grateful I am that you did," Stephens said. "You seem to be settling into your new role quite nicely. How are things at Stalag 13?"

"Oh, you know how it is. Another day, another dollar," Hogan said. "I've put together a damned fine team. I think we'll be able to accomplish a lot."

"I imagine you will," Stephens agreed. "Speaking of that team you've put together. I assume you have a plan for your Corporal… Newkirk, wasn't it? What can I do to help?"

"You're in no shape to do anything. He'll be along shortly," Hogan said. _I hope._ "Let's just get Kapitan Weiss and his prisoner out of here, and Colonel Hogan can double back later if necessary."

Stephens looked at Hogan. The American was right—Stephens was in no shape to do anything—but this was still far too tenuous and seat-of-the-pants for his taste. "He said he would try to give us some lead time before escaping," he reported. "To be brutally frank, I suspect that, even with that delay, the Germans will connect you with my escape in any case."

"It doesn't matter if they do," Hogan said. "Our friend 'Kapitan Weiss' was never intended to survive past the edge of town. Once we're in the woods, we'll torch the car, and whaddya know? The Underground must have ambushed us, rescued their man, and the Kapitan presumably died a hero's death. Dulce et decorum est."

"Unless you have a convenient body to burn in the car, they're far more likely to assume that the Kapitan— _and_ his so-called prisoner— were Underground impostors all along," Stephens corrected. "Especially given the suspicious timing of my—or, rather, Newkirk's— escape."

"Six of one," Hogan shrugged. "So long as he makes it out, I don't care what they think happened to Weiss. We'd never use these identities again in any case."

"No, quite sensible," Stephens said. "If I may ask, though, what _is_ the plan for getting him out?"

Hogan tightened his hands on the steering wheel. He didn't take his eyes off the road. "He's got his picks," he said. "So long as he's got those, he could be in and out of the Tower of London before the guards so much as knew he was there, and for all I know, he's done just that. He'll get himself out."

Stephens shook his head. "No, Colonel," he said. "That's simply not good enough. Not for the Gestapo."

" _Don't you think I know that?_ " Hogan hissed. "We weren't given a whole lot of choice in the matter. London wanted you out, in one piece, before sundown, and they said that no price was too high to pay for that. They wanted it done quickly and quietly, and they gave me this mission all of an hour ago. We were only in town to pick up counterfeiting supplies! We weren't prepared for this! We had one handgun, a knife, and a set and a half of identity papers between us. Nothing else. This goddamned pawn sacrifice of a plan was the best I could come up with on ten minutes' notice. Do you think I'm _happy_ about any of this?"

"No," Stephens said quietly. "I can't imagine you are."

*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Macaroni and cheese, much to my surprise, dates to the Middle Ages. The Kraft product debuted in the '30s, so there's a fair chance that Olsen is picturing the cardboard box version, and every chance that mentioning the powdered cheese sauce would genuinely kill LeBeau on the spot. Hogan's line about 'Dulce et decorum' is from the Roman poet Horace, via a famous WWI poem, and translates as 'It is sweet and appropriate to die for one's country.' Hogan is letting the irony and the bitterness more or less run in rivulets down his front.


	36. Chapter 36

Hogan had been right about one thing; Newkirk, given a good set of picks and a few uninterrupted minutes, probably _could_ have gotten himself in and out of the Tower of London. That part of the escape had been sheer skill. The part that was pure, dumb luck was the fact that, between a three-day training maneuver three miles outside of town that had claimed half the men, and a batch of very dubious schnitzel served the night before that had put paid to most of the remainder, the guards were embarrassingly shorthanded on that particular day. Call it chance, call it fate, call it divine intervention; either way, it was the difference between life and death.

Newkirk counted to one thousand after he was sure Hogan and Stephens were gone; that seemed like a sufficient margin for safety. There had been no shouting or gunfire, or anything else to suggest that all was not right with the world; therefore, his presence in the cell no longer seemed at all necessary— or even slightly desirable. If Hogan had gotten away clean, it was more than time for him, Newkirk, to be elsewhere before they came to collect Stephens for their regularly scheduled programme of musical selections and assorted tortures and noticed the difference. (Or worse... _didn't_ notice the difference.) If Hogan had been caught, which was not, alas, beyond the realm of possibility— as clever as he might be, he was still just a Yank and an officer, the poor sod— well, he could hardly help the man from in here, now could he?

He slipped out of the cell. There was only one guard in sight, bent over a large ledger, presumably documenting the current roster of soon-to-be corpses in the cells. Scarcely more than a boy, in a spanking new uniform that, providentially enough, looked to be about the right size. His face a mask, Newkirk crept up behind the German, clapped a hand over the man's mouth, and with one quick, vicious twist, snapped his neck.

He was dead before Newkirk could even finish lowering him to the ground.

"Fortunes of war, Fritz," he muttered, as he dragged the German back into Stephens' cell. "Sorry, chum. Better luck picking the right side next time around."

Quickly, neatly, he stripped the body and donned the uniform. The tunic, horribly, was still warm as he pulled it on. He'd told Hogan that he wasn't a murderer, and he told himself that he still wasn't. That the rules were different for soldiers than they were on Civvy Street.

That had sounded a great deal more convincing when he wasn't lacing up a dead man's boot.

He arranged the body, face down, on the cot, and threw the blanket over it to hide the fact that it was neither Stephens nor breathing. It wouldn't fool anyone for long, but if luck was on his side it wouldn't have to. He straightened his new uniform; this was his third new identity in as many hours. How many other people might he need to be before morning?

Well, he'd burn that bridge when he came to it. He took one last look around the cell, and was reasonably satisfied that there was nothing there to connect a pair of foolhardy POWs with the murder-slash-escape, at least so long as they didn't dust for prints or any such Sherlock Holmes caper. No, it was about as neat a murder as one could ask for on short notice.

And it really was a murder, wasn't it. He'd told Hogan that murder had never, ever been one of the tunes in his not-inconsiderable repertoire back home. Nor had it been. But he'd never said that he hadn't seen the sheet music, or that he didn't know how it was played… and he did.

He took a deep breath, and stepped out into the corridor, forcing himself into that stick-up-the-Khyber attitude all Krauts seemed to favor. All he had to do now was get the hell out of the building. Yes. That was all he needed to do. Piece of cake. He marched resolutely towards the exit, past the rows of closed cell doors, his inherited jackboots thumping the cement floor like a drum.

He made it almost halfway down the corridor.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The rendezvous point was an old barn about half a mile outside of town. LeBeau and Olsen were waiting there, both increasingly anxious about Hogan and Newkirk and pretending that they weren't. They'd long since run out of conversation.

Olsen glanced at his watch. "We're… um… we're going to have to go back pretty soon. If we miss evening roll call, they'll—"

"If we miss roll call, they will come out searching for us," said LeBeau, with a forced calm. " _Oui._ And if they find us out of uniform, we will be shot. We can spare another hour yet."

"But, LeBeau—"

"Another hour, I said. At least, _I_ will wait another hour. You may go if you choose."

Olsen gave him a level look. "Nah," he said. "I'm game if you are. Newkirk's probably getting his face slapped by some girl, and I don't want to miss hearing him try to deny it."

LeBeau flickered a smile. " _Merci, mon ami_ ,"he said. Before he could continue, two figures approached the barn. One wore an Abwehr uniform, and he was nearly carrying the other, a stumbling figure in a gray work shirt and dungarees. Both Olsen and LeBeau, without even thinking about it, dove for cover. The door cracked open.

"Old Mother Hubbard went to her cupboard to bring out a turkey to carve," said the Abwehr officer, in Hogan's voice.

LeBeau felt his heart sputter back into motion, and gave the countersign. "But when she got there, the cupboard was bare, for the Boche had just left her to starve."

Olsen rubbed a hand over his eyes until he thought he could keep his voice from trembling. "Wow. You really scared us, sir. We weren't expecting Abwehr. I'm sure glad you're all right."

"Things got a bit more complicated than they were supposed to," said Hogan, helping Stephens sit down on a bale of elderly hay. "We ran into a bit of trouble; I had to improvise."

"So I see, sir," said LeBeau, moving towards them. "What can I do to help—" Hogan seemed fine. But Newkirk was obviously…

Newkirk was obviously not the man on the hay bale, and LeBeau felt his heart skip another beat.

Olsen stood up, too. "Is Newkirk hurt? What happened to—" He got close enough to get a look at the man in Newkirk's clothing, and his eyes widened. All vestiges of proper NCO-to-Colonel etiquette were momentarily forgotten. "Who the hell is that?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

It was a very long corridor, and each cell he passed made it that much harder to keep walking, until he noticed that he'd stopped moving altogether. _Couldn't_ move, and it didn't have anything to do with the terror that was twisting his guts into a knot. With a sort of numb wonder, Newkirk realized that, for the first time, the absolute first time since he'd been dragged into a Dulag cell with another man's blood slowly drying on his coverall and his own blood coating the back of his throat, he wanted—desperately, desperately wanted—to live.

It did cross his mind that he'd picked one hell of a bad time to start wanting it.

Still. Here he was, in the middle of a Gestapo prison with a key ring in his hand. There were so very many cells, and anyone who was on the _wrong_ side of those locked doors was almost certainly on the _right_ side of the war. Probably _they_ wanted to live, too. Probably they _deserved_ to live. London had been quite adamant about rescuing Stephens, but if they'd known who else was down here, mightn't they have wanted them sprung, too?

His orders had been clear. Get Stephens, and get out. But there were so many cells. Cells full of people who were certainly going to be tortured or killed. And he had the keys right in his hand. He could, perhaps, free at least a few of them. If he chose to try.

Every minute he spent here was a danger. It was against his orders. It was suicidally stupid.

But there were so many cells. So many people who didn't deserve what the Krauts would do to them. So many lives trembling in the balance. Some of them might even be young girls whose big brothers had abandoned them to go off and play soldier.

This was all wrong. They needed a hero. Someone who could stride in the door, effortlessly save the day, and ride off into the sunset, debonair and witty and indefatigable. A Lancelot, or a Robin Hood, or at least a white-hatted movie-serial do-gooder. Hell, they needed a Colonel Hogan. Not a sticky-fingered gutter rat, and certainly not a half-cracked jailbird. No, they needed— deserved— a hero. And what they'd gotten, the poor luckless bastards… was him.

A memory struck him; himself, at sixteen or so. He'd been with the circus for two years, and for pretty much the first time in his life, he'd begun to feel safe. Almost dared to begin hoping that he'd found a real place for himself. Somewhere he could truly belong, with people who actually wanted him there, and, just maybe, a future to go along with it.

So, of course, that was the moment when fate chose to kick him in the teeth.

In the careful, painstaking hand of a person for whom the written word was, at best, a formal and distant acquaintance, the letter he'd just been handed said that his nan was dying, and that he needed to come home. For Mavis' sake. That he had to stand between her and their father, the man who'd thrown him out three years ago… because there was no one else left who would or could.

If there was anything in the world he wanted _less_ than to go back to London and face his father, he'd have been hard-pressed to think of it. And raising a child? _Him?_ Were they all mad?

He'd crumpled the note in a hand that he refused to let shake, and begun informing the universe at large, as though it hadn't noticed, exactly how unfair it was being, both to him, and to her.

"What could the likes of me do for a little girl? Teach 'er to lift wallets? She's barely more than a baby! She needs a real 'ome, a family to look after 'er, send 'er to school and cook 'er dinners. She's only six, for God's sake! She deserves better than this! She needs a father… and all she's got is me!"

Ronald J. Whittaker, also known as the Amazing Rondini, was not a man given to deep thought. He was a knife thrower—a rather good one—and a drunk; he was kind enough, in his way, and perhaps if he'd been able to keep off the bottle there would have been more to say about him than that. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and even a washed-up carnie rumpot can have one or two pearls of wisdom in him.

"Well, if that's all the poor girl's got, I guess you'd best see to it that it's enough," said Ron. "That's your job, now. It's all on you. I daresay you can do it if you try, especially if it's that or the workhouse for the lass."

Newkirk, not even close to finished with his rant, had just stared at the man for a long moment, stunned, then nodded slowly and gone to pack his meager belongings. Everything changed for him, right there on the road to Damascus… or, at any rate, the road to Manchester. His own needs didn't get to come first anymore.

Ron's words had never left him. They'd made him into the person he was. It wasn't the mere fact of the responsibility he was taking on his scrawny shoulders that forced the change; it had been Ron's quiet certainty that he _could_ manage it if he cared enough to try _._ These poor unlucky sods needed a hero. What they had was him.

He'd have to make that be enough.

He spun on his heel, went back to that ledger full of names and cell numbers. There were enough of them to be unnerving, but not so many as to be utterly impossible, he decided. He started with the one cell he knew had a living occupant; that older man he'd seen.

There is a distinct possibility that the sight of a man in Gestapo black-and-silver opening a person's cell door, with a drawn Luger in his hand and a death-or-glory glitter in his eyes, is never, and can never, be a reassuring one. The man in the cell, who called himself Vogel, swallowed hard.

" **Sprechen Sie Englisch?** " the guard asked abruptly.

"Yes," said Vogel.

"Right, then," said the guard, as his voice shifted into something that was decidedly not Aryan. "You've got a choice. I'm breaking out of 'ere; you can come if you like. It probably won't work and we'll be shot in the attempt, but that's likely quicker and cleaner than whatever these Gestapo bastards will do to us otherwise. Or you can stay behind. Take your chances with the Gestapo, or take them with me. Your call, either way."

Vogel didn't even have to think about it. "I will trust you," he said, with a certain amount of dignity. "I think we all will."

Newkirk cocked his head. "All, eh? You know the other members of this little country club?"

"Some of them," Vogel admitted. "Associates of mine. We were… captured together. I can only hope they are still alive."

"Fair enough. I'm going to nip across the way for a bit, see who else might be in the mood for a bit of a 'oliday. You stay put while I do the inviting. I'm leaving the door unlocked; if I don't… well, if things go pear-shaped, you can try to make a run for it. Best I 'ave to offer."

"It's more than I'd any right to ask," Vogel said. "But please. Let me come with you. My friends will be more likely to trust you if I'm there."

"That's your call, too. Come on if you're coming."

"Ja. Do you have a plan for how we can escape?"

"Would that I did. All I can think of is this. We go up the stairs into the main corridor, and shout 'Fire.' With any luck, they'll get so busy that they won't notice me leading you fellows out. If we make it to the streets, we scatter and run like the devil's on our 'eels, because trust me, 'e will be. No matter what 'appens, you run. Better for some of us to get away than none. All right?"

"But they will see that there is no fire," said Vogel.

He reached in a pocket, retrieved the Kraut's lighter. "There will be in about two minutes. Unless you've got any better ideas?"

Vogel grimaced. "I will try to come up with something in the next five minutes."

"Good. You do that. I'm not too proud to take suggestions."

No, not too proud by a long shot. His current plan was essentially a suicide run, and Newkirk rather thought that they all knew it. A better plan would be nice.

Well, maybe at least a couple of them would make it out.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The Amazing Rondini is an original character who I mentioned in 'Sew Far, So Good.' Newkirk once says that he traveled with a circus for a while—sharing quarters with the chimpanzee, so he couldn't have been too far up the totem pole. Given that he can and does throw knives, I theorized that it was a skill he picked up during that period of his life.


	37. Chapter 37

Altogether, there were eleven of them, not counting Newkirk. Eight of the battered, hollow-eyed prisoners were men. Three were women. Nine were German, two were French; all spoke at least some English. Their ages ranged over thirty years or so. Several had blond hair, some dark hair, some graying hair. All of them had been in their current location long enough to feel that death was no longer the more frightening eventuality. They all chose to run for it.

Five of them, including Vogel, were Underground agents. Two were smugglers. One was a black marketer. And three of them genuinely couldn't figure out what they'd done to end up in prison; they had no idea what they were being accused of, or who had denounced them, or why. He hated himself for being so cold-blooded as all that, but the part of Newkirk's mind that instinctively calculated such things reflected that there was a fairly good chance that the cruel illogic of arresting such obvious innocents could, eventually, cause a lot of otherwise loyal Germans to question their leaders, which could only help the Allied cause. Even if the innocents themselves never made it home, and he didn't try to fool himself that their odds were anything but abysmal, they surely had friends. Neighbors. Family. It just might start something of a domino effect. Eventually. It was a hell of a price to pay. But _he_ hadn't started any of this madness, and he sure as hell hadn't forced it on them, and if the innocents were going to pay that price anyway, maybe they could at least get something in exchange.

And as he shepherded his little flock down the corridor, he tried not to think about the fact that, before today, it had never really occurred to him that _any_ German was, or ever could be, considered innocent.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk could feel the silver SS insignia on his stolen uniform burning him like a brand. This identity was one he suspected he'd be glad to shed as quickly as possible, but it did have a few redeeming features. The loaded sidearm, for instance. That was definitely a nice thing to have. And the identity papers in the pocket just might come in handy, somewhere down the line. And, to put the icing on the cake, the jackboots were a much better fit than Stephens' worn loafers. He'd be able to run if he needed to. God willing, he wouldn't need to, but then again God didn't usually seem to give a toss about arranging matters to suit Peter Newkirk, Esquire.

"Right," he said. "One more thing. You can't go back 'ome. Once we're away, if I… well, if we're separated, you're going to go to these coordinates. There should be a bloke waiting there. If there's more than one, look for the shorter of them, and you say to 'im… " He thought for a moment, trying to come up with a decent password. Not another one of those bleeding nursery rhymes London favored. This needed to be something unusual enough to stand out; something that the others would know could only have come from him... When one occurred to him, he barked a laugh, and told it to Vogel. "It'll be all right. 'E'll know what it's all about."

"If you say so," said Vogel, who was looking less and less reassured by the moment.

"I do say so. I promise you, 'e'll see you right. You can trust 'im."

"If you do, I shall as well. But mein Herr… aren't you coming with us?"

"I bloody well 'ope so. And if I can, I will. But if things go tits up, well… take it from a tailor. Sometimes what you want is a belt _and_ braces." The blank look on Vogel's face prompted him to add for clarification, "Just to be on the safe side, is all. Are we ready? Come on."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

LeBeau wasn't upset. Not yet. He was somewhere beyond upset, in a cold, stunned place where there was no time or energy for such things. His voice was steady. "So. Are we to bring Monsieur Stephens to the camp, or leave him with the Underground here in town?"

Hogan scrutinized Stephens one more time. He'd really been worked over hard, and as the adrenaline of their escape had ebbed, it seemed to have taken most of Stephens' remaining energy with it; he looked like a marionette with its strings cut. "Normally, I'd say that getting him out of Germany as fast as possible would be a good idea, but I'm not sure he's fit to travel yet. Keeping him in the tunnels for a few days while he gets some strength back might be the safest route."

"Perhaps not. When it is discovered that Pierre is missing, there will be a great deal of trouble in the camp. The Boche will examine every inch of ground searching for tunnels; even a teaspoon's worth of loose dirt will be suspicious. Our tunnel could easily be discovered, and him along with it. And then all this will have been for nothing."

"No. Because Newkirk's not going to _be_ missing. We'll get him back. We might even get him back in time for roll call," said Hogan. It was even money if he was trying to convince LeBeau or himself, and it was useless either way. LeBeau wasn't buying it, and Hogan's faith in his own plan was wavering badly.

LeBeau just looked away.

Scraps of a dozen different conversations spun through Hogan's mind. LeBeau's painfully honest explanation— _Betrayal is simply what he expects of people. It is almost certainly what he expects of you._ His own promise— _I don't work like that._ Newkirk's own blunt acceptance of the inevitable knife in the back— _You will if you 'ave to. That's war._

Hogan looked away, too. And silently added himself to that list of people who should have protected him… and chosen not to. LeBeau, he suspected, had already done so, too.

They had, against all the odds, rescued Stephens. A valuable cog in the wheel of the Allied war machine, or so it seemed, and, impossibly, they had saved him with nothing more than a dash of audacity and a phony uniform. A job well done. It was cold comfort.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

They made it up the first flight of stairs before they noticed the smoke in the air. Vogel coughed once. Almost accusingly, he said, "You have set the fires already? Before we are out of the building?"

Even Newkirk's lungs, which had long ago resigned themselves to a life that was going to contain ridiculous amounts of smoke, smog, and other non-salubrious substances, were starting to complain as the haze got thicker. "Not my fire," he said, clapping a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. "I wasn't scheduled to commit any arson for at least another five minutes."

"What do we do, then?" asked one of them. A rather pretty French girl, and it was a measure of the stress that they were all under that he barely noticed that she _was_ a girl, let alone a pretty one.

"Plan's not changed any. We get out of 'ere. Steal a truck if we can, scarper on foot if we can't, commend our souls to God, and 'ope that Krauts can't aim. Not necessarily in that order."

"This is not much of a plan," she said, coughing harder.

"Yeah. I noticed that too," he said, handing her the handkerchief as they got to the top of the second flight of stairs. The smoke was thicker, now. Much thicker.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

By the time they made it to the street, half-suffocated but not quite singed, the street was a more or less solid mass of bodies, all shouting orders that no one was really listening to, and all getting in one another's way.

One man, off to the side a bit, was just getting out of a truck. Newkirk's eyes lit up, and he chivvied his little band towards it.

" **Step aside** ," he snapped to the driver. " **I am commandeering this truck**."

" **You can't have it** ," he said. **"I am helping transport important records. They cannot be left to burn."**

 **"I need it to transport prisoners,** " growled Newkirk. " **Papers do not run away. They can wait**."

He looked at the ragtag band of prisoners, and sneered. " **Let the scum burn** ," he said dismissively. " **It will save us the trouble of shooting them**."

" **Listen, dummkopf. These prisoners still have valuable information to share with us; can you not get it through your thick skull that letting them burn _before_ we have extracted that intelligence would be extremely wasteful?** " Newkirk, with a manic, vicious glitter in his eyes that he had stolen, without attribution and without apology, from Lange, got right in the man's face. It worked; he was pleased to see that he was going green around the gills. " **Or perhaps that's what you _want,_ eh? Do you have some reason for wanting them silenced before we've heard all they have to say?"**

The Luftwaffe rank-and-filer who'd had the misfortune of being the one with a set of truck keys was a sergeant; he technically outranked the man who'd worn Newkirk's stolen Gestapo uniform. The skull and crossbones insignia, however, made such technicalities negligible, and the sadistic glee in Newkirk's face made them entirely irrelevant. The sergeant went a bit paler.

" **No, of course not, sir** ," he stammered. " **What will you—I mean, sir… what should be done to protect them?"**

" **Protect them? Now you want to protect them?"** Newkirk let a corner of his mouth twist into a cruel sneer, and got in closer still. Instinctively, the German backpedaled a step or two, retreating behind the body of the truck. Nerves of steel, this one. " **Perhaps you should come along! I am taking them to a more secure facility. A charming place, where we can have our… _discussions_ … in peace. Perhaps you'd like to join us? You're so adept at asking questions that I can only imagine you're equally as good at _answering_ them.** "

" **No sir** ," he got out, still retreating. He held out the keys in a hand that only shook a little. " **I'm very sorry, sir.** "

" **You certainly are** ," said Newkirk, and snatched them from the man's hand. " **Well? What are you waiting for? Go help them put out the fire, dummkopf!"**

" **Thank you sir!"** he said, and all but ran towards the building. Flames were beginning to show at the windows.

"Don't mention it," Newkirk muttered under his breath. "Really. Don't." He opened the driver's side door. Their luck was holding; the sergeant had left his topcoat on the passenger seat. _And_ , oh bliss, his rifle; the poor chap was going to have to do some fancy footwork when his superiors learned that he'd lost it. "Oi! Take this," he said, shoving the coat at Vogel. He slung the rifle over his own shoulder. "Congratulations on your promotion, feldwebel. You're driving."

The coat didn't really fit Vogel all that well. But it covered his dirty, and decidedly non-military, shirt, and it went along with the keys to the truck, which, so far as any of them cared at that point, made it the garment he had been waiting for all his life. He jumped into the driver's seat while Newkirk, snarling and spitting potty-mouthed epithets with an ease and fluency that would have brought a proud tear to the eye of any Nazi training officer, herded the rest of the prisoners into the back of the truck.

"This won't stand up to anyone watching with more than 'alf an eye," Newkirk said under his breath to the nearest prisoner—the French girl, as it happened. "Vogel, this'll be good for getting some initial distance between them and us, but we'd best ditch the truck once we're well away. And the uniform with it. It's an army truck; it'll stand out like a sore thumb, and we don't know any of the right passwords for the checkpoints."

He nodded, once, as Newkirk switched back to German, and resumed barking commands and describing the probable ancestry of his little flock, emphasizing each new perversion with a mock-blow of his rifle butt that looked quite convincing from any distance. As the last man was loaded aboard, Newkirk swung himself in and looked into the courtyard, which was still a hive of activity. No one, however, seemed to be paying them too much attention.

"That's the last of you. Floor it!"

And Vogel did, peeling out into the road with just a little too much speed for inconspicuousness. All four tires did stay on the road, but not by much.

They made it almost twenty yards before someone seemed to notice that something was amiss. " **Halt!** " that someone shouted, and followed up that friendly suggestion with a short volley of rifle shots.

"Keep driving!" Newkirk contradicted, and scrambled back to the rear of the truck to return fire. "Don't you bloody well stop for _anything!_ You see God Almighty blocking the road, you run the bastard over!"

The French girl turned towards him. Fiercely, she demanded, "Give me a gun!"

He didn't have time for niceties like asking whether she was familiar with weaponry. He just shoved the rifle into her hands and drew the sidearm. "There. Shoot anyone what isn't me, all right?" Suiting the action to the word, he fired, almost randomly, into the crowd. Any Nazi he hit was one less to shoot at them, and good riddance, he thought, just as a bullet missed his head so closely that he could hear it whistle.

Reflexively, he ducked, just as Vogel made a hard right turn. Newkirk lost his balance, and fell.

He hit the ground rolling.

Vogel, true to orders, didn't stop.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk had a thick skull, and a good thing, too. He only lay there, dazed, for a moment; then he pushed himself carefully off the ground. Nothing seemed broken. Right. Change of plans, number eleventy-million and three; he would duck into that alley, and get the hell out of this uniform, and run like sixty for the rendezvous. He might not beat them there, but he might still arrive quickly enough that the Colonel wouldn't have time to get too angry—

" **Halt!** "

The word might be ignorable; the click of a gun being cocked was not. Slowly, Newkirk put his hands in the air, and even more slowly turned around to face them. It was over. Better to have the holes in front.

The two men were not in uniform, but they were wearing dark suits. That meant Gestapo. That meant trouble. That meant discovery. That meant he had to keep his mouth shut for as long as humanly possible, no matter what.

It meant death, and it meant unimaginable pain before he was finally allowed to die.

Damn it. Why couldn't this have happened yesterday, when he wouldn't have cared?

" **Where were you taking those prisoners?** " asked the younger of the two men.

Newkirk said nothing.

The man backhanded him across the face. " **Answer me, swine! Where were you taking them?** "

Newkirk said nothing.

The second man shook his head sadly. " **This is madness. Tell us where you were going. You will eventually, you know; you could spare yourself a great deal of unpleasantness if you simply cooperate now. Help us to help you. Tell us where they are.** "

The old good cop/bad cop routine? Really? Who did they think they were fooling? Newkirk glared at them both, and answered in German. This was probably the last thing he'd say of his own volition, and he didn't want there to be even the slightest chance they'd mistake his meaning. " **Where are they? They are in Hell. Go look for them there."** He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. " **You will eventually, you know."**

The two men traded glances. " **We'll bring him with us,"** decided the second man. " **No sense in doing this out in the open.** "

They manhandled him to their car, shoved him into the boot, and took off. " **What now, Piper?** " asked the first one, with a thread of desperation becoming increasingly apparent in his voice. " **We have to find them!** "

" **I know that! And we will,"** said the second man, code name 'Pied Piper,' his composure similarly fraying. " **We'll… we'll take him to Horner. I'm sure he'll know what to do."**

" **What to do? What to _do?_ There's nothing left to do! Besides, Horner had no idea what to do yesterday; what could he possibly do now? Our diversion failed, and now we don't even know where the Gestapo are taking them**!" The first man was not in the mood for soothing inanities. He was called 'de Carabas,' and just now he felt as much of a fraud as his namesake.

" **We will soon** ," said the Piper, ice in his voice and steel in his eyes. " **Our guest will tell us everything we need to know.** " He made an abrupt right turn—much harder than was strictly necessary—and headed down a side street. One with a great many potholes. The boot was not padded.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Sometimes the left hand really, _really_ should have been told what the right hand was doing. Piper and de Carabas are a pair of hot-headed idiots who meant well, but going rogue was really not their cleverest move, no matter who they thought they were rescuing.

And as for the pretty French girl... I don't say that she is someone we'd recognize from the show. Nor do I say that she isn't. To quote Newkirk... your call, either way.


	38. Chapter 38

LeBeau, with one last look at Stephens, turned away and sat down, his eyes burning holes into the wall, and hands tensely folded in his lap, not saying a word. After all, what was there to say? Hogan had made a choice. It was probably even the objectively _right_ choice; letting the Nazis break Stephens was not an option. Stephens, at least in the eyes of the people running the war, was priceless. Newkirk, conversely, was worthless, and no one outside of Barracks 2 (and, possibly, a flat in Stepney,) would have said otherwise.

Not even Newkirk himself, and somehow that hurt LeBeau more than anything else. He said nothing.

It was the loudest silence Hogan thought he had ever heard.

It was getting so late that it was almost early, Hogan thought. He calculated that they had something like two hours, perhaps three at most, before they had to be back in camp, and it wasn't enough time. Just getting back was going to take the better part of an hour.

There were several smart ways to play this, Hogan thought. Several ways to salvage the situation. Several ways they might manage to save what they had left. It was all a matter of looking at the bigger picture, thinking three moves ahead, and planning for the long run. Like a chess game. Chess is a bloodless war, straightforward and clean. Pawns don't suffer when they're taken, and all that really counts is whose king is struck down in the end. Everything else is negligible. Hitler could not be allowed to checkmate the free world, no matter who or what they had to sacrifice to prevent it. That was the cold, hard truth.

Just off the top of his head, Hogan could think of several smart ways to play this.

To hell with all of them.

Hogan nodded once. "Right. Olsen, you and LeBeau get Stephens back to camp. Stash him in the tunnel, get some food into him, have Wilson give him a quick once-over, and play dumb for the Krauts. I'm going after Newkirk. If we're not back before they call out the hounds, well… just say we went over the wire, and neither of you have any idea where we might have gone."

Olsen bit his lip, glanced at LeBeau, still sitting on his hay bale. Under his breath, he murmured to Hogan, "Sir? No one will ever believe that Newkirk would take off without LeBeau. Or vice versa."

"Maybe the kriegies won't believe it, but they don't matter just now. Klink's new enough that he might not know about our resident Damon and Pythias," Hogan muttered back. "Do it. That's an order!"

At that inauspicious moment, the barn door creaked; all four men dove for cover. If it was the Gestapo, being in the open would do them no good, and if it was Newkirk, taking cover would do them no harm. There was no gunfire as the man pushed the door open.

"Jack and Jill went up the hill to see what had gone wrong," said the newcomer.

Hogan sighed. Well, it wasn't the enemy, but that was _not_ the voice he'd hoped to hear. He'd never been so sorry to hear anyone enunciating the letter H. He replied anyway. "Jack had to go, with a friend in tow, and Jill will come along."

Horner came in all the way; his eyes lit up when he saw Stephens. "It's a miracle. You did it, Colonel! I wouldn't have believed it possible."

"Don't congratulate us yet," said Hogan. "My guy's still back there. Do you think you can find somewhere safer than this rattrap to take Stephens? We were going to bring him back to camp, but if you've got a better place for him to do his recuperating, that would spare us the trouble of sneaking him back out once he's back to his old happy self again. Meanwhile, I'm going back for Newkirk."

Horner blinked. "Going back? You can't do that."

"The hell I can't. I left camp this morning with three men, I'm damned well going back with three. The _same_ three, thank you very much. Don't you dare try to tell me I can't—"

"Colonel, there's nothing to go back _to_. The building is on fire, and everyone is gone. I…" Horner paused, shook his head minutely. "I thought that perhaps you'd done that yourself. To cover your tracks."

Hogan clenched his hands together, thinking hard. "No. Not me. We got out smooth as silk. Maybe he did it himself to cover his own escape. I wouldn't put it past him."

"He would have had his _briquette_ , his lighter, in his pocket," said LeBeau, a flicker of hope brightening his eyes. "He goes nowhere without it."

They turned, simultaneously, towards Stephens, who obligingly dug a hand into his— or, rather, Newkirk's— pocket. Empty.

"There is a chance it was him, then," said Hogan. "Okay. I'll give the firebug another fifteen minutes. If he doesn't show up… I'm going after him anyway. Kapitan Weiss shouldn't have much trouble blending in with the Herrenvolk, and I've got a decent set of identity papers if anyone's brave enough to ask to see them. Even so, Olsen, you and LeBeau should get back to camp before anyone notices we're gone. Worst comes to worst, the others will need someone who knows the protocol and can help them run for it." He looked the smaller man straight in the eye. "No betrayals, LeBeau. Maybe I can't save him. But I can damn well choose to try."

History, it is said, repeats itself; once as tragedy, later as farce; the barn door creaked once more. This time all _five_ of them dove for cover. It was possible that Newkirk was at the door; it was equally possible that the Gestapo had trailed one or all of them. This miserable excuse for a hideout was starting to look like Grand Central Station at rush hour, Hogan thought irritably. His hand tightened on his sidearm.

Well, it wasn't Gestapo. It also wasn't Newkirk. Something like a dozen winded, battered people were at the door, looking desperate. Horner stared at them for a moment, then stood up.

"Cole? King Cole? Is that you?"

Vogel, who was also known as Old King Cole, and who did not at all appreciate the 'old' part of the code name, gaped at him. "Horner? Jack Horner? **Gott sei Dank!** —yes, yes, it is I."

"Why did— what are you doing here? Who are these people?"

"We—all of us, we have just escaped from the Gestapo. We need help," he said simply. "We must get out of the country."

"You escaped? I hadn't known you were captured…! But how? And what are you doing _here_? This is not one of our usual locations."

The man's eyes jumped from one man to the next; he finally landed on LeBeau and cleared his throat. "We were told to come here. Told that we would find someone here to help us. You, mein Herr. We were told to find you. "

Hogan shook his head minutely. This was all too convenient. It could be a setup. He edged between LeBeau and this alleged King Cole. "I don't know about that," he said. "Who told you about us?"

"Your friend. An Englander," said Vogel, flicking a glance at him, then returning his hungry, desperate gaze to LeBeau, who got up from his hay bale and came closer, his own eyes equally intense.

"I know a lot of Englanders," said Hogan, poker-faced. "So does he. I'm told there's a whole island full of them. I'll need more proof than that."

"Ja. I know." Vogel bit his lip. "He would not tell us his name. Or yours. But he helped us escape, and told us to come here, to this place, to find you. To ask you for help." He looked straight at LeBeau. "He said to tell you that, er… well… he said to tell you that he was sure you'd like to screw us all."

Hogan choked. "He said _what_?"

Vogel actually squirmed. "Not you. Him," he said, nodding towards LeBeau. The clarification didn't do much to make Hogan feel any better. "He said that he felt sure that you'd like to screw us. That you would know what he meant."

Hogan looked quizzically at LeBeau; the young chef looked as though he'd been hit with a board. "They're telling the truth, Colonel. They… they really did speak with Pierre."

"Huh. That has some sort of meaning for the two of you?"

"It is an old joke. At his own expense. When I was first teaching him French… I told him to say that to strangers, to ask if they would like to screw him. But I said that it was a polite greeting, and that it meant 'pleasure to make your acquaintance.' This was years ago. No one else could possibly know that story." Well, no one aside from a long-gone handful of French POWs, who had laughed themselves sick and promptly forgotten the whole incident. And possibly a Gestapo interrogator. He would not think about that now.

"Well, that makes a little bit more sense," Hogan said slowly. Prison had its own rules, and he didn't feel that what other people did in their spare time was any business of his, but there were limits, and turning a rescue mission into a lonely-hearts club just about breached them. He returned his attention to Vogel. "So what exactly happened? He just walked into your cell and invited you out for a casual walk in the countryside?"

"Yes, actually," said Vogel. "He was dressed in a Gestapo uniform; I thought for a moment that he was there to kill me. Instead he offered me—all of us—a chance to escape."

"So, on the spur of the moment, he sprung all of you out of jail," Hogan said slowly, looking at the rest of the escapees, noting the bruises, the hollow cheeks, and the sunken eyes. Newkirk, he mused, had been just in the nick of time for more than a few of them. "Yeah, that sounds like the kind of thing he'd do. I'm going to kill that crazy Brit. Where is he now?"

Vogel looked away. "Gone. He stole a truck for our getaway, but they were shooting at us as we pulled into the road. He must have been hit; he collapsed, and fell from the truck. If he was not killed immediately, he was certainly captured."

The hope—and all the color—drained from LeBeau's face. It was replaced almost instantaneously by incandescent fury. "So you… _you just_ _left him behind? He rescued you from Hell itself, and you abandoned him? You left him to die in the road like a stray dog? Cowards, you damned cowards! I am ashamed to be on the same side of the war as you—_ "

"Easy there," said Hogan, because LeBeau showed no signs of stopping anytime soon of his own accord. "Time for that later. Cole. You say you 'suppose' he was killed? You didn't see for certain?"

"I saw very little of anything but the road ahead. I was driving. If I had stopped to retrieve him—or his body—they would have recaptured the rest of us, and he would have died for nothing." Vogel's voice cracked on the last word, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

Hogan closed his eyes for a moment. "So am I," he said, and cleared his throat. "Right. First things first. Horner, I think that all of these people could use a nice vacation in foreign climes. Do you agree?"

Horner nodded. "That would probably be best," he said. "I can get them to the next link in the chain—" He stopped, turned a startled look to Vogel and the other Underground prisoners. "Forgive me for asking, but I must. Is the escape route still safe? What did you tell them?"

They looked at one another. "I told them nothing," said one of them quietly. "Another day, perhaps maybe only another hour or two, and I would have, but not yet."

One by one, the others made similar confessions. Nothing of terribly vital importance had been shared, it seemed. Even so, they looked haunted enough— guilty enough— that Hogan knew that it must have been a damned close thing. They would carry that shame to the grave.

Now it was just a matter of making sure that those graves were sufficiently far in the future. "Sounds like we're clear," he said, as bracingly as he could. "Good work. Okay, Horner, these folks have a train to catch; let's get them to the station."

"Right now?" Those of the prisoners who had been involved in less-than-legal activities, if not precisely thrilled at the prospect of a hasty emigration with only the clothes on their backs, leaving their families, homes, and possessions behind, had been at least prepared for the possibility. The ones who, a day or two ago, had woken up in their own beds with every expectation that they would return to them that evening, were less so, and began to babble about wives, or parents, or, God help them all, children.

"Please. Please! I assure you—we will get them out if it is possible," said Horner. "We will do what we can for them. But first, we need to get you all to safety."

That didn't help much.

"My brother gave his life for yours," said LeBeau, in a low, intense voice that cut through the panicky chatter. "Do not dishonor his sacrifice. Go. Go now, and we will see to your families. You trusted him; you can trust us now. We will finish the task he began. But you must go now… and so must we."

Hogan looked at Horner, at Vogel. "You can get them to safety?"

"We can," Horner said. "Your man is right. Go now. We will be in touch."

"Copy that," said Hogan, and looked at his men. "Come on. It's been a long, crappy day, and it's going to be an even longer, crappier night. We have to move. Roll call is in ninety minutes."

"We will make it in time," said LeBeau, with a serene assurance entirely at odds with the storm in his eyes. "We must not dishonor his sacrifice either."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: LeBeau's long-ago misinformation has certainly had implications he could never have imagined at the time. Yet again, words are being used in such a way that their actual meanings have little or nothing to do with what they're actually saying. It's one hell of a backwards way to say 'I trust you,' but that's our boys, I suppose.


	39. Chapter 39

The road was bumpy and the car boot was small. His hands were tied and his knife was too far away to reach. The Krauts were driving like lunatics, and he was being rattled around like the last bean in the tin. He didn't think he'd cracked his skull quite yet, but it was probably just a matter of time.

This was fine.

This was better than fine. So long as they were joyriding, it meant they weren't doing anything worse. So long as they were doing figure-eights through the alleys, presumably for his benefit, it meant they weren't chasing his little flock of bonus escapees. _Or_ his mates. So long as he was here in the boot, it meant he wasn't hanging by his thumbs in some airless hole with scream-muffling stone walls. Hell, he would be _lucky_ if it was only his thumbs they hung him by; he could think of far worse extremities they could try looping cords around, and if he could imagine it, doubtlessly they already had it down to a science, the bastards.

A science. They probably thought of it as just that. He wondered if there was some sort of step-by-step manual of interrogation techniques for Gestapo. There probably was; the army made manuals and training films for everything else. Idiot-proofing the war, as it were. And Germans loved precision, loved doing things exactly by the book. His imagination easily filled in the possible details of such a book; step one: procure prisoner, preferably a too-damned-clever-for-his-own-good Cockney. Step two… no, he didn't want to think about step two. Or steps three through however many there might be.

Well, he wouldn't talk.

They couldn't make him talk.

…Yes, they could. And they would. Eventually everyone talked.

He couldn't let them make him talk.

His knife. He had to get the knife. If he could reach it, at least he could see to it that the only thing they got out of him was a nasty stain on the upholstery. He couldn't reach it. But he had to but he couldn't but he had to…

He blinked rapidly; his eyes were stinging. Dusty in here. Sweat dripping in them, that was probably it. Or blood. No other reason for the moisture he could feel on his cheeks. No reason at all. Get a hold of yourself, man.

If the prisoners had gotten away, then between the man he'd been sent in to retrieve and the strays he'd collected on his own hook, he'd saved an even dozen lives in the space of a few hours. Not too shabby, really. It was something to be at least a little proud of; in a life filled with, at best, morally questionable actions, (even if they _had_ been taken for inarguably good reasons,) maybe having one unequivocally virtuous deed on the plus side of his ledger was the best the likes of him could hope for. It wasn't enough to save his soul, if he even had one; it didn't make up for any of the other things on his page. But at least it was _something._ It didn't atone for breaking each and every one of the Ten Commandments six ways from Sunday, especially the ones about lying and stealing and honoring thy violent drunken bastard of a father. It didn't even start to make up for Jimmy, who should have had the good chute, or for the kid he'd killed for this uniform, whatever his name was. It sure as hell didn't make up for leaving Mavis alone to face the Blitz. It didn't even make up for hurting Louie and then going off and getting himself killed before he could make it right. Cor, Louie, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. Mave, oh, God, Mave, I'm so sorry. Forgive me if you can. Colonel, I'm sorry. Good luck with the rest of your war. Kinch, Forrest, Richmond, Olsen, everyone, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...

The boot was cramped and the overheated air was unbreathably stale and he hurt all over, and that was fine, because so long as he was in here, things couldn't get any worse.

The car slowed, stopped altogether.

Great. Just bloody great.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Kinch met them in the tunnel entrance, and his smile when he saw them trudging in single file through the cramped corridor was bright enough that it nearly lit up the dim cave. "You made it!"

"More or less," said Hogan, with no answering smile. "Mostly less. Were we missed?"

"Not yet," said Kinch, the smile melting away. "Made it by the skin of your teeth. There's a roll call in about five minutes, and the goons are so jumpy they look like they've got ants in their pants. Not sure why. I guess Klink wants to make one of his speeches and they're not looking forward to it any more than we are; there hasn't been anything even slightly out of the ordinary to justify it, otherwise."

"Yes, there has," said Hogan. "Gestapo Headquarters burned down this afternoon."

Kinch blinked a few times. "Say again?"

"Gestapo Headquarters just burned down," Hogan repeated. "Chances are they're going to come down on us like the wrath of God."

"Us? Why us? What could they possibly think we had to do with it?"

"They'll possibly think that someone escaping from this joint on the same afternoon that their favorite torture chamber went kablooey is a bit more than a coincidence," said Olsen harshly, pushing past LeBeau to reach for his bomber jacket, and dropping the sack of food abruptly to the floor.

Kinch peered into the darkness over Hogan's shoulder, trying to convince himself that he was going to see a nonexistent fourth silhouette in the bowels of the tunnel. He didn't get rattled easily or often, but this had done it. "He didn't. Oh, God. Colonel—tell me he didn't!"

"We don't know. He might have. None of us were there at the time," said Olsen. He snagged LeBeau's sweater from the hook and tossed it to the Frenchman. If, as Olsen had suggested, Newkirk had been left to help LeBeau wrangle root vegetables, none of this would ever have happened, he thought bitterly, trying to smother his guilt beneath a layer of righteous irritation. It didn't help much.

"I'll give you what details we've got later. What we do know is that, one way or the other, the Krauts got him. If there's any mercy in the universe, he's already dead and won't be able to tell them anything. We can't, either." Hogan fixed Kinch with a look that could have drilled holes into solid granite. "Newkirk made an unauthorized run for it; that's the story. Probably went out in the garbage trucks, because we don't have time to clip any wires and we can't let them start looking for tunnels. He didn't tell you he was doing it, you've got no idea where he thought he'd go, and you don't give a rat's ass either way. That's all we're going to say. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. But what if they don't believe us?"

"Then we'll hope like hell that the Geneva Convention requires them to offer us a blindfold and a cigarette," said Hogan. "Look. If I thought there was time to evacuate, we'd be having a different conversation right about now, and if I thought there was any chance that I could have rescued him, we wouldn't be having any conversation at all."

"Yes, sir," Kinch repeated, and snuck a look at LeBeau's expressionless face. Newkirk, Kinch thought, had been a good friend, and he knew he'd mourn for the man when the reality of the loss had had a little time to sink in. But LeBeau had lost quite a bit more than simply a friend, and Kinch was worried for him. And the Colonel…! Their first real foray into intelligence work sounded like it had been something more than just a mere disaster, and London was probably going to have a conniption fit.

Even if Klink didn't make the connection between a missing corporal and a building in flames—and, really, how could he? It was too fantastic to credit, like something out of a bad movie— what was going to happen to them?

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

" **What is going to happen to us if we can't get our friends back?** " asked Carabas, as they pulled into a side street. One low-ranking Gestapo prisoner was a very slender thread from which to hang so many hopes, and he knew it.

 **"I suppose we'll have to run for it,** " said Piper, with no enthusiasm for the prospect. " **We have to assume that they'll have gotten our names. If they're not on to us already, then in a day or two they will be, and we're no good to anyone dead."**

 **"King Cole will protect us for as long as he can** ," Carabas said.

" **And just how long do you suppose that will be?"** Piper had lost too many people to have much optimism left. Right about now, all he really had was a certain amount of grim satisfaction that at least, his comrades would not go entirely unavenged, and that, tonight, some stormtrooper's nearest and dearest would be grieving just as much as Piper would himself.

" **We've got one of their men** ," Carabas said, more for his own reassurance than anything else. " **Even if they won't trade our guys for him, he'll be able to tell us where they are. We can still rescue them, Piper. We _can_**."

" **Maybe** ," said Piper. " **I hope you're right**." He parked the car in an alley.

" **Horner will know what to do,** " Carabas said.

Piper glanced back at the car—no, at the trunk of the car. " **If he doesn't… I do** ," he said under his breath.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Roll call was never fun. It wasn't supposed to be. The ritual was humiliating and infuriating in equal measure; being chivvied about by smirking goons was nobody's idea of a good time, and that wasn't even taking the often foul weather into consideration.

Tonight, they were really spreading the wealth; the prisoners had the distinct pleasure of being counted, recounted, and then screamed at for a solid hour when even Corporal Schwartz (a man who would have needed to take off his socks and shoes to count to twenty and would still have come up with the wrong total in the end,) was forced to admit that Barracks Two was definitely a man short.

The faint pleasure of watching Klink's blood pressure shoot through the roof as he realized that his chances of spending the rest of the war in a nice, safe sinecure well behind the battle lines were rapidly disappearing into the snowy steppes of the Russian Front wasn't much compensation.

"Where is he, Hogan?" Klink rasped. "I know that you know what happened! Where is your Corporal Newkirk?"

Hogan furrowed his brow. "Newkirk… hmmm… Newkirk… he was the one with the buck teeth and the receding hairline, right?"

LeBeau, standing a few places down the line shook his head. " _Non, mon Colonel_ ," he corrected. "That was Corporal New _burg_. I think New _kirk_ was the blond with the bad allergies."

"Still wrong," said Kinch. "That was New _man_. Didn't New _kirk_ transfer over to Barracks Eight when we tried to make him get rid of his pet rat?"

"Nope. That was New _court_. And good riddance; the rat was better company than he was," said Olsen. "Better hygiene, too. Wasn't Newkirk the one who—"

"Enough!" shouted Klink. "I don't want to hear any more of your tomfoolery. Where is Corporal Newkirk!"

"Newkirk? Oh, right! _Newkirk_. Okay, now I know who you're talking about. Well, let's see. Did you try looking in the cooler? Seems like that's usually where he is," said Hogan blandly.

"Herr Kommandant, that is true. He is often in the cooler," said Sergeant Schultz, who had been standing a pace or two behind Klink, with a worried look on his broad face. "Shall I go and see if he is there now?"

"Does he make a habit of locking himself in there?" asked Klink, with wounding sarcasm. "I know when I've sent a man to the cooler and when I haven't! And if you continue to play games with me, Hogan, I'll be sending a lot more men there, starting with you! Where is he?"

"Kommandant… I wish I knew. He's gone, that's all I can tell you; I have no idea where he is. Believe me, this is not something I planned on having happen. And that's the honest-to-God truth," said Hogan.

It was, too. In all his months of captivity, it was the most honest thing he'd ever said to a German.

Naturally, Klink did not find it at all satisfactory.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Piper gave the special knock on the door that should have alerted Horner.

No one answered.

He knocked again, sternly suppressing a bit of panic. _Tap tap… taptaptap._

Still nothing.

He peeked in through the window; the usually immaculate kitchen was a shambles, with half-eaten food left on the china plates, and several broken dishes on the floor. Horner was not there, that was certain. The only question now was whether he'd left in a hurry… or left in handcuffs. Either was possible. Neither option meant good news.

He turned away, walked stiffly back to Carabas, who was still standing by the car. **"Get in** ," he said under his breath. " **Hurry up!"**

Carabas did. " **He's…?"**

 **"Not there,"** said Piper, sliding into the driver's seat. " **Someone must have talked, sooner than I'd have thought. Either they've grabbed him, or he's fled. We've got to get out of here before anyone sees us."**

" **Oh."** Carabas was young, and sometimes allowed enthusiasm to take the place of common sense, but the war had long since stiffened his spine. He understood that there was a time and a place for grief, and that this was neither. " **What now? Switzerland, I suppose."**

 **"Ja. The next stop on the escape route isn't too far away** ," Piper said.

" **And… him**?" asked Carabas, jerking his chin in the vague direction of the trunk. " **We do have our pistols. When we get out of town, shall I silence him, or do you want the honors?"**

" **No. Shooting him is much too clean, and much too fast. When we get to the station, we can avenge our friends properly** ," said Piper.

Carabas nodded grimly, and the car rolled on.


	40. Chapter 40

The 'station' was an abandoned shack deep in the woods, and it more or less shrieked 'secret hideout.' Storybook perfect. It was the sort of place that had probably been explored by dozens or, more likely, hundreds of local boys, before they had all been sent off to war or worse; the roof was mossy and overgrown and the door creaked ominously when it opened. If it had been in a film, the audience would have known straightaway that it was going to be full of desperadoes; as the heroine approached, they would have been thinking, 'no, stupid—don't go into the spooky cabin,' knowing that, inevitably, she would. There wouldn't be any story if the hero didn't do something impossibly stupid and unspeakably brave.

It was so obviously a secret hideout that nobody gave it a second glance; what sort of underground organization would be stupid enough to actually use it as such? Therefore, paradoxically enough, it was as safe, to coin a phrase, as houses. It made sense if you didn't think about it too hard.

Just now it was all but bursting at the seams; Stephens had made a wry comment to the effect that it was just as well that they had no food, since sitting down thirteen at the table was very bad luck. Horner and Cole had smiled at the weak joke; most of the others were too preoccupied with their own current run of bad luck to worry about hypothetical omens.

"We'd be fools to try to get all of you out at once," Horner said, meditatively twisting a button as he took stock of the crowd. Most of Newkirk's eleven looked shellshocked, and Stephens looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with mere physical weariness. "You first, old friend, and maybe one or two others with you, and then I think we'd best wait a bit before sending out a second lot."

Stephens nodded agreement. "We'd need a double-decker bus. If not an entire passenger train. Hardly what I'd call inconspicuous."

"Not by a long shot," said Horner. "And that's not taking into account that your American friend just might need a berth on that train himself, depending on how badly his captors take the news. Him _and_ his men."

"He'll be all right," said Stephens, hoping it was true.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Piper parked the car in a shadowy bit of clearing; the cabin was set a good half-mile away from anything even resembling a road, which meant that they had a bit of a walk ahead of them. He drew his pistol, and tossed Carabas the keys. " **Here,"** he said. **"Get him out. I'll cover you."**

Carabas swallowed, looking a bit green. " **We're going to do it right here?** "

Piper, suddenly faced with the difference between a firefight and cold-bloodedly playing executioner, hesitated. " **No** ," he decided, stalling for time. " **We'll bring him to the cabin. It's… quieter**."

Carabas glanced around the silent clearing. " **Good idea** ," he agreed, a bit too hastily. **"Safer that way.** " He opened the trunk.

Newkirk, more than a bit dazed from the rough ride, was still sufficiently in control of himself to twist around and glare at the Germans, silently daring them to do their worst. If he could not entirely conquer the terror twisting at his guts, he thought, he could at least make damned sure that they never knew it was there. He could do his best to die with some dignity.

They were going to kill him. He knew it, they knew it, and they knew he knew it. It was over, and he had no cards left up his sleeve. Not an ace, not a trey, not even a joker; everything that had ever mattered to him was gone, one way or another. He was alone; no one in his family, either by blood or otherwise, was ever going to know what had happened to him. He didn't even have his rightful uniform, which was somehow almost as bad. He wished he had that blue jacket, with the insignia of the country that had never really wanted him but which he loved regardless, and with the sleeves emblazoned with the rank stripes that were _his_ , that he had earned fair and square and no cheating. But he didn't. All he had left was what remained of his dignity, a knife he couldn't reach… and the memory of twelve lives saved.

" **Tell us where we can find the prisoners** ," said Carabas, unknowingly echoing his thoughts. Carefully, he pulled Newkirk out of the trunk, keeping a steely grasp on his arm, either to steady him or to keep him from bolting. **"You can still save yourself. Give us the prisoners, and we won't hurt you any more."**

If this had been a melodrama, Newkirk thought, he would have probably come up with something dashing and noble as an answer to that… or at least, venomously witty and barbed. Either way, something memorable. But this was real life, and he was no hero. He nodded slowly, as if considering the offer, then spat a mass of blood-tinged saliva directly in the other man's face.

Carabas recoiled, making a few unintelligible sputtering noises in the process.

" **Thank you for doing that. You're making this much easier for me, you bastard,** " said Piper. With the hand not holding the gun, he rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief, and extended it to Carabas. With the other, he shoved the muzzle of the gun into the middle of Newkirk's back. " **And a great deal harder for yourself. Gag him."**

Carabas, scowling, took it, and wiped his face clean. " **You should have cooperated,** " he hissed, and tied the now-damp handkerchief into place, a bit tighter than he might have if his hair hadn't still felt slimy. He reached into the back seat of the car, retrieved a coil of rope and an entrenching tool. " **You really, really should have helped us. And you're going to be sorry you didn't. Now move it!"**

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The dogs had been loosed. The sirens had been sounded. Guards were running around with grim expressions and loaded rifles. The men were confined to the barracks until either Klink stopped hyperventilating or doomsday, whichever came first. And none of it had done a lick of good, because nobody was talking, and Newkirk had not been found. Neither had the tunnel, which was the one bright spot in an otherwise fetid swamp of an evening, but the mood in the camp was anything but hopeful.

Sergeant Schultz slipped into Barracks Two after an hour or two of pandemonium. "Colonel Hogan?" he said tentatively. "May I ask you a question?"

Hogan turned to face him. "If it's about Newkirk, save it. The answer is still 'I don't know.' If you've got another question, I'm all ears."

"It _is_ about Newkirk," Schultz said, his big, honest face concerned and sad. "Colonel Hogan, I have known him for a very long time now. He is a good boy… er, when he is not being bad… and I would not like to see him get hurt. Please, Colonel, you must understand. If he is found by someone other than us, it would not be good for anyone! Not for me, not for you, not for the Big Shot, and not for him. If you can think of anything— _anything!_ — that could help us find the Englander…?"

Hogan shook his head. "I wish I could, Schultz. I really wish I could. I don't want him to get hurt, either."

Schultz's shoulders slumped a bit. He turned to LeBeau, with a last, forlorn shred of hope. "What about you, Cockroach? He is your friend. Surely you know where he might be?"

LeBeau looked stonily at the guard for a long time. Finally, he said, "If I knew where he was, I would be there as well. And if he were my friend, he would have told me. The _rosbif_ does as he pleases. I cannot help you, _Boche._ "

Schultz sighed explosively. "Ach, Donnerwetter. I am very sorry about this. Colonel Hogan… I will tell you if I hear anything."

Hogan came as close to a smile as he could manage. "Thanks, Schultz. I appreciate that."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk didn't struggle as they trudged through the woods. It just didn't seem worth it. He didn't know where he was, for starters, and he was still fairly fuzzy-headed and limping from both the car ride and a few strategic love taps that had presumably been meant to indicate generalized displeasure with his conduct and demeanor. Besides, he didn't have a great deal of confidence in his ability to run faster than a bullet at the best of times, which these were decidedly not. The only reason he didn't try anyway was his absolute certainty that they wouldn't go for a clean kill. Being tortured and shot was going to be bad enough in that order; being shot, and _then_ tortured, and then shot _again_ seemed a tad excessive from his point of view. Not that he was being entirely objective and impartial about the whole thing. But then again, neither were the Krauts. Maybe it all evened out.

Carabas stopped in his tracks perhaps a quarter mile from the shack, under a venerable old oak tree. He looked at Piper questioningly. " **What do you think? Here?"**

 **"As good a place as any,"** Piper said, and handed his companion the gun, taking the rope in exchange. He tossed one end over a sturdy limb, and, holding one end of the rope in either hand, tugged a few times to make sure it would hold a man's weight. Satisfied on that point, he tied a running knot on one end.

 _Dad always said I was born to hang,_ Newkirk thought, with the strange, fey calmness that often accompanies blinding terror. _I guess even he couldn't be wrong about everything. Ah well. At least it'll be fast, and if I can't breathe, I can't rat. Could've been worse._

Piper smiled, and proffered the spade, leaving the noose to sway overhead. " **Now you will dig, schweinepriester,** " he said softly. " **Six feet. As you work, you will answer my questions, and if I like your answers, perhaps I will allow you to die _before_ we fill in the grave." **

Newkirk spent an endless half a second imagining being buried alive before he was able to squelch the thought. Yep. It could always be worse. Trust a Nazi to make the gallows look like the _good_ option. He let himself slump—see, I'm beaten, I give up, I'm harmless; untie me—and nodded slightly.

Piper smiled faintly, and nodded a go-ahead to Carabas, who pulled a jackknife of his own from his pocket and efficiently cut the cord. Newkirk shook out his hands, trying to get a bit of feeling back into them, then stretched his aching shoulders, clasping his hands behind his neck, where his knife (the knife they hadn't found, the knife they didn't know he had, the knife that was his last slim chance,) was sheathed…

He never was quite able to reconstruct the exact order of the next eight seconds in his mind. But they ended with a long, shallow score along the German's sternum and his pencil sharpener in Carabas's hand. They ended with a dent in the entrenching tool, and with him lying on the ground curled up around what later turned out to be two cracked ribs. They ended badly enough that the exact details of what happened when didn't matter much. He'd rolled the dice and come up snake eyes.

Piper kicked him. " **Up. Dig. You're not getting out of this that easily. Dig!"**

Slowly, painfully, Newkirk made it to his feet. He picked up the dented spade, drove it into the hard ground, and lifted out a small scoopful of earth. Another. And another.

Piper watched him for a moment, trying to feel vindicated, trying to feel as though his friends were being justly avenged. He looked at the man he was forcing to dig his own grave, and tried to feel triumphant. He tried to muster at least a shred of satisfaction.

All he felt was dirty.

He looked at Carabas. " **Go ahead of me. Go to the station,** " he said gently. At least he could spare him this much. " **Get that cut cleaned up. I'll… take care of this part."**

 **"All right,"** said Carabas, who felt vaguely grateful and vaguely guilty all at once. " **If you're sure…?"**

 **"I'm sure. Go on."**

Carabas hurried away. Part of him was grateful he didn't have to watch the stormtrooper's death. Part of him felt guilty that he didn't _want_ to watch. And part of him was still trying to come to terms with the fact that their comrades were really gone. He kept picturing his friends in the stormtrooper's position; it was all too easy to imagine them scraping out shallow graves of their own, or to visualize their limp bodies tumbling into them.

He didn't even realize that he was crying as he stumbled through the woods.


	41. Chapter 41

One shovelful of earth.

" **Tell me where you were taking the prisoners!"**

 **"…Leck mich."**

Another shovelful. And another. They'd established a routine by now. In deference to that most persuasive of objects, a loaded Luger, Newkirk was obediently digging, but he was doing it slowly and carefully, in deference to both his aching ribs and the fact that there wasn't much of an incentive to rush things. Every couple of shovelfuls, Piper shrilled out increasingly frantic demands for information; each time, Newkirk grunted out, between clenched teeth, one of the more… expressive German phrases he'd picked up at one time or another. The Swabian salute was the least of it, and he hadn't had to repeat himself yet.

They were at a stalemate, and they knew it.

Newkirk, a realist, had no hopes of either rescue or mercy, and he was in no condition to run, which didn't seem to leave him with a whole heck of a lot of options. The noose hung low enough that it brushed against his hair every time he straightened up to throw more dirt out of the deepening pit, presumably because the Nazi thought he needed a reminder of where this whole dog and pony show was heading. Oddly enough, he was almost grateful. Somehow, the eerie caress had taken him past the point of fear, and, more importantly, for some twisted reason he didn't even try to understand, it had given him back a perverse sort of dignity, which was something he hadn't had in a very long time. The worst had happened, was happening, and the only thing left to do was see it through with his head held high. And he knew he could.

For his part, Piper had been forced to admit, if only to himself, that his friends were beyond his reach, and any chance of rescuing them was long gone. Any information his prisoner might have, even if he could be forced to disgorge it, which seemed unlikely, was, by this point, worthless. And Piper had realized that, even as angry as he was, with as much hatred as he felt, as much as he wanted revenge, while he was more than willing to kill in battle, and could even bring himself to execute in cold blood, the ability to torture simply wasn't in him. He wasn't sure if that was strength or weakness. But it was a fact.

Stalemate and stasis. Both of them were tired of the situation. And neither of them quite wanted to take the necessary next step. The shallow pit deepened.

The grave was about three feet deep when Piper's nerve broke. The grotesque masquerade needed to end, and quickly; he needed to get away. And messing about with a short-drop hanging from a tree limb that probably wouldn't hold anyway was simply too slow to bear. " **Stop!** **That's enough,"** he said, and drew his pistol. " **Kneel**."

Newkirk, standing at the bottom of the trench, closed his eyes for a second, then looked up at his executioner. And smiled. "No," he said simply.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

One of the smugglers sounded the alarm. " **Scheisse! There's someone coming**!"

Horner spun on his heel to face him. " **Who? Who's coming**?"

" **There, see? Trying to sneak up on us. Black suit**." He swallowed. " **Gestapo, do you think**?"

Horner frowned. " **I can't imagine that they'd send a single man**." He peered through a crack in the shutters. Yes, the man was alone, and… there was something familiar about the way he held himself. Clearing his throat and cocking his pistol, he looked at Stephens. "I think I know him. Shall I try the Crosspatch sequence?"

Stephens nodded. "Do it." The recognition code, like many of their passwords, was based on a nursery rhyme. That particular one had two possible correct answers; one meant 'all is well.' The other meant 'I am under duress; save yourselves.' Any other answer, including the Mother Goose original, meant 'I am an imposter; shoot me.'

Horner pushed the shutter open another fraction of an inch. "Crosspatch, draw the latch, sit by the fire and spin."

The man in the dark suit made an inarticulate sound that seemed equal parts joy and shock, but he gathered himself quickly enough, and his voice only shook the tiniest bit as he responded. "Our thread grows strong, both fine and long, so kindly let me in."

Horner sagged a bit in relief. That was the 'good' answer. " **It's all right** ," he told the others. " **It's a friend. I'm opening the door."**

Carabas barreled into him. " **You're alive! You're all right! My God… when we saw the mess in your kitchen, we thought the worst. But you're safe!"**

 **"I'll admit I left in a bit of a hurry. But we're all safe,** " Horner said with a broad smile. " **Look!** "

One of the rescued Underground agents called himself 'Baron von Munchhausen.' He and Carabas had picked their names together— both fictitious noblemen were liars and fraudsters who had nonetheless come out on top, which had seemed appropriate. They'd laughed a lot while choosing their codenames, but then, they had shared a great deal of laughter over the course of their lives.

Brothers usually did.

Carabas whispered, **"…Kurt? Kurt, is that really you?** "

Munchausen hugged him. " **It's really me, Gunter!** " He laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. " **I can hardly believe it myself. But it's all right now, little brother. We're all right."**

 **"How? Good God, Kurt, how did you escape? We saw you being taken away. Piper and I, we saw you being loaded on that truck, and we couldn't help you… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry! How did you get away?"**

 **"Be calm, Gunt— _Carabas._ It's all over, and you have nothing to apologize for** ," Munchausen soothed. " **You did nothing wrong."**

 **"But how did you escape?** " Carabas persisted.

Vogel cleared his throat. " **It was like something out of a movie serial,** " he said. " **It shouldn't have worked, but it did. A man from a different unit broke into the prison disguised as a stormtrooper. He just pulled us out of our cells, marched us out of the building, and loaded us onto a truck."**

 **"He did?"**

" **He sure did** ," Munchausen confirmed. " **It was a hell of an audacious plan, but the truth is that we were unbelievably lucky. Cole's right; it shouldn't have worked. There was some shooting, but we had enough of a head start that we got away with only the one casualty; the agent himself. All the rest of us made it to safety**."

The blood drained from Carabas' face as a terrible suspicion began trailing cold fingers up his spine. " **The man who you say saved you… he was dressed like Gestapo?"**

 **"Yes, yes, of course. How else could he have made it look like an official transfer?** " Vogel smiled faintly. " **Well, somewhat official, anyway. In all the chaos, he was able to avoid most questions, and bluff his way through the rest. He was a brave man."**

Stephens frowned. **"You saw this happening, Carabas? How? Where were you?"**

 **"We… we were there. You say he was on the truck that carried you to safety?"**

 **"At first. As I said; they opened fire on us before we'd gotten very far. He was hit."** Vogel finally looked up, saw the dawning horror in the younger man's eyes. " **Why do you ask?** "

Carabas swallowed. " **I… it may be that… was he, perhaps, dark-haired? Medium height?"**

Stephens was on his feet and holding the young man by the collar before he realized that he had moved. " **What are you saying? What do you know about this?"**

Carabas was shaking his head, _no no no_ , trying to deny it all.

" **Answer me! What are you not telling us?"**

 **"We didn't know it was an escape** ," Carabas said numbly. " **We thought the Gestapo were really moving the prisoners.** " He swallowed; in a hoarse undertone, confessed, " **We were just trying to rescue you."**

With a visible effort, Stephens let go his collar and stepped back a pace, gathering himself. " **Admirable,** " he said in detached, academic tones. " **What, precisely, did you do?"**

 **"We started a fire** ," Carabas began. " **We could not think of another way to force the Gestapo to bring all the prisoners outside at once, and in the confusion, we thought we could get you away..."**

Stephens looked incredulous. " **You set fire to the building—while they were inside—with no better plan than _that_?** " His voice hardened. " **Are you stupid or simply mad?"**

 **"We didn't know what else to do! And if anyone had already talked, we thought at least we could destroy any records of the confessions. If things hadn't gone as they did, wouldn't you have wanted it that way?** "

Vogel ran his hands through his hair, trying to stay calm. " **All right. All right. Logical, I suppose. But we were already leaving the building. How did the two of you expect to rescue us?"**

 **"We saw you being taken away in a truck. We tried to shoot out the tires—** "

Vogel's eyes widened. Calm became abruptly unimportant. " ** _You_ were the ones shooting at us? _You?_** "

" **No! We weren't shooting at you! Just the guards who were holding you! He was in their uniform; we didn't know!"**

 **"I was wearing the same uniform! I was the damned driver! You could have shot me!"**

 **"We didn't know! We were trying to _help_ , that's all."**

 **"You killed a good man!"** Vogel slammed a fist on the table. " **Some help!"**

 **"No! He's not dead,** " Carabas protested automatically, and then went paler still when he realized that he might be lying. **"At least… he _wasn't_ dead. Not yet. Piper was going to… we were going to make him tell us where you were, and then he…" **

**"He's alive?** " Stephens asked. " **Where is he?"**

 **"We have to hurry…!** " Carabas bit his lip. **"I'll take you to him**."

"Stephens—you're in no condition to go anywhere," Horner said.

It was true. Stephens didn't care. "I'll manage. Come on, lad! Pray to God we get there in time!"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Piper clenched his jaw. " **I'm being _merciful_ , you bastard. Something your kind doesn't know much about. Kneel and I'll make this quick."**

Newkirk folded his arms. "I don't kneel to scum. I especially don't kneel to _Nazi_ scum. Do anything you damned well please, but don't pretend you're some great 'umanitarian because you'd rather blow my brains out than stretch my neck."

Piper blinked, lowered the gun a fraction. " **Why… why are you speaking English?"**

Of all the crack-brained questions he'd heard from Krauts in his life, that had to take some sort of cake. Newkirk had never had much patience for stupidity, and now he had none whatsoever. "Oh, for the love of— Why do you bloody well _think_?"

Piper lowered it a fraction more, confused.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Stephens was clinging to the fact that they hadn't heard a gunshot. He'd passed 'exhausted' some twenty-eight hours ago, and used up most of what was left of his adrenaline on the initial escape and the long trek to the hideout; now, he was focusing everything he had left on the need to run. He had to get there in time; there were two potential victims in that grove, not just the obvious one. Newkirk only stood to lose his life; Stephens knew that if Piper pulled that trigger, he'd lose his soul. The guilt would destroy him, and probably take Carabas down as well. Stephens couldn't let his bit of bodily weakness be responsible for destroying three men. Not over a damned _misunderstanding_ , not on a day that should have been such an unadulterated triumph. That wasn't how this was going to end. It couldn't be. And there hadn't been a gunshot. They still had time.

Carabas, who knew that Piper had not been intending to use such a noisy method of execution, didn't have even that to cling to. He found an extra burst of speed.

" **Halte! Halte**!" he shouted as they drew near the clearing. " **Piper, stop**!"

Stephens, gasping for air, stumbled over a tree root; Carabas grabbed him by the arm and steadied him as they covered the last few yards.

And sure enough, there were Newkirk, only half visible from where he stood in the trench, and Piper holding a gun, although the expression on his face suggested that he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to do with it.

Stephens, still bent over, trying to catch his breath, had time to think that he'd _heard_ of having one foot in the grave, but had never really expected to _see_ it.

Newkirk looked at Stephens, who was still being held by Carabas, and his shoulders sagged. "Oh, damn. Nabbed you too, then, eh?"

Stephens, who'd expected something more along the lines of 'Thank you for rescuing me,' was thrown for a moment. Then, noticing Carabas's firm hand on his arm, and putting the pieces together, smiled a bit wryly. Of course the poor sod still thought that this was what it looked like; the entire chain of misplaced zeal, mistaken assumptions and sheer bad luck was so farfetched that Stephens scarcely believed it himself. "No, no," he said. "You've got quite the wrong end of the stick, I'm afraid. These lads work for _me_."

Newkirk stared at him, then at the two men by his side. This, Stephens thought, might have been another good opportunity for that 'thank you,' but again Newkirk took him by surprise.

"Might've guessed that. I _knew_ that escape went too easily," he said, chagrined and hopeless. Stephens knew about the Guv, had _sent_ the man to Stalag 13, so by now he knew about the others, too, and they'd probably end up buried in pits of their own right next to his as soon as the traitor tired of whatever cat and mouse game he was playing with them. And his band of strays… as good as dead. He'd failed them all. "Well, it is what it is. I can't say I think much of your mates."

Stephens sighed. "You're not seeing them at their best, I'll admit that, but you've still got it all wrong. They're Underground. It seems we got a few wires crossed along the way, but we're all on the same side here. You're safe, I swear it."

Newkirk didn't reply. He just blinked a few times, waited for his head to stop spinning as the world rearranged itself for the third time in as many minutes. He looked up at the two young Germans in Gestapo black—Carabas was biting his lip and looked close enough to tears to not need binoculars; Piper, who had already dropped the gun on the ground, looked sickened by what he had done, and even more by what he had nearly done. Then he looked down at himself, at the stolen uniform that had nearly been his death warrant, and thought about the boy he'd killed to get it. Seemed the boy'd come within a whisker of having the last laugh after all, and the absurdity of it all quirked his lip into a wry smile of his own.

Then it occurred to him that he had a few other matters to settle now that it seemed he was going to keep breathing a bit longer. "What of the Colonel, and my mates?"

"We sent them back to the stalag hours ago. Without you, which probably means that they've been having quite the time of it this evening, but they should be all right. Judging from the reports I've seen on the man, your new Kommandant doesn't seem the sort to do anything too irrevocable."

"Sure. A right saint, from those shiny jackboots all the way up to 'is even shinier scalp. They're probably sitting in the cooler cursing my name even as we speak," Newkirk said, with no heat. The cooler was… well, the cooler, but it didn't even begin to compare to the lash, and Stephens was right. Klink wasn't Lange. They'd survive. "One other thing. I borrowed a truckful of prisoners on my way out. You wouldn't 'appen to know what became of them after I, er, shall we say, got off at the wrong stop?"

Stephens laughed outright. "A fine way to put it. They're all safe, never fear. Come, the safehouse isn't that far away. We need to discuss a few plans for the future, anyhow, and this is no place to chat."


	42. Chapter 42

The gaping hole in the turf needed to be filled in; it was too obvious a signpost, a glaring neon sign all but shouting _Look, Look! Something Happened Here_ ; not to mention a tripping hazard. After a Glance from Stephens, (and one that fully deserved the capital letter,) Piper and Carabas hurriedly insisted that they would do the work, since, given the undeniable fact that they were the only ones not currently looking and feeling as if they'd been run through a laundry mangle… and that it was entirely their fault, anyway… it was only fair. Carabas picked up the shovel and began the job while Piper, with an uncomfortable grimace, untied the rope and wound it back into a neat, unthreatening coil, wishing desperately that he could not physically _feel_ Newkirk's eyes boring holes in him the whole time.

Newkirk and Stephens sat on the ground to rest while the other two worked, and Stephens immediately began discussing the events surrounding that day's escapes with Newkirk in painstaking detail. This was for two reasons. Firstly, it's hard to imagine anything much eerier than the experience of watching your would-be executioner filling in your grave. Newkirk, despite a rather impressive poker face, couldn't quite keep his eyes off of the spectacle, and Stephens figured that giving him something else to think about could only help. Secondly, and far less altruistically, he wanted to see if Newkirk _could_ manage to shake off the discomfort and carry on an intelligent conversation… _while_ watching someone fill in his grave. It was asking rather a lot, and summoning that level of sangfroid was, he thought, something that many people would not be able to do. He was pleased, if not exactly surprised, to find that Newkirk not only could, but did.

Oh, he'd been right about this one, he thought, with a bit of pardonable smugness. He rather prided himself on his ability to find gold in a gutter—or, at least, silver in a stalag—and the Goldilocks crew was proving to be one of his best finds yet.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

After evening roll call was finally through, Hogan found LeBeau pretty much where he'd expected him to be; down the tunnel, in the small side chamber they had designated as the Wardrobe department. It didn't have much in it at the moment besides a skimpy sewing kit, a very well used ashtray, and a few bits and pieces of clothing that were really just waiting to be given a decent burial; not even Newkirk really believed that he could turn them into anything more exalted than cleaning rags. LeBeau's expression was stony as he toyed with a measuring tape.

Hogan sat down on an only slightly wobbly stool. "How are you holding up, LeBeau?"

He shrugged. "I am not the one who was shot today. I suppose that means I am fine."

Hogan lifted an eyebrow. "I wish it _were_ that easy."

"Yes," said LeBeau. "So do I."

"Hell of a trick he pulled off," Hogan said. "I thought I'd done pretty well sneaking out _one_ guy, and he has to go and top me by breaking out an even dozen? I'm not sure whether to be impressed or irritated."

LeBeau's lips twitched into what was almost a smile. "Oui. That is… that was always the trouble with Pierre. He did not make things easy. Not for others, and not for himself."

"No, he didn't. And I can't imagine that any of this is easy for you now. I mean it, LeBeau—how are you holding up?"

"I don't know. I want to be very angry with him for getting himself killed, but how can I be? In his place, I would have wanted to rescue those poor people myself. Perhaps I am simply angry because I was not there to share the danger. I was haggling over the price of carrots. Useless."

"Not useless. Not as glamorous as bamboozling Nazis, I'll grant you, but those carrots are going to keep us going for a few more weeks, and you were in nearly as much danger as we were."

LeBeau snorted eloquently.

"There's the other part of it, too," Hogan said. "You and Olsen followed orders. You completed your task and you brought your team safely home. Newkirk went rogue, let his heart overrule his brain, and there's a good chance we're all going to have to evacuate in the next twenty-four hours because of it."

"If he had not rescued those agents, if they had broken, we might well have had to do so anyway!"

"That's probably true, too. My point is that we're not out of the woods yet, LeBeau. And if this gets as bad as it looks like it's going to, I'm going to need you on top of your game. Are you with me?"

"To the last, Colonel," said LeBeau. "I will do what must be done. For France, for you… and for Pierre."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

When the clearing looked at least semi-normal again, Stephens got to his feet with only a small wince. "All right. It's getting late; we'd best stay at the station for the night. We can worry about tomorrow when it gets here."

"Shouldn't I go back to the camp tonight? Klink's probably having a litter of kittens. The Colonel probably is, too."

"I don't doubt it. But we're all about done in. And you can hardly go back in that Gestapo uniform you're wearing, or even in whatever mufti we can scrape together; you'd be shot as a spy before clearing the gates. We'll arrange… something. In the morning," said Stephens.

Newkirk bit his lip, but couldn't really argue with any of that. Nor could he argue with the complete and utter exhaustion in the other man's face and bearing; with some shame, he reminded himself that he was not the only walking wounded, nor even, if he was being honest, the worst off. He just nodded. "Morning sounds good to me. In fact, this whole idea of a 'oliday from prison strikes me as a nice change of pace. It's not like I'm particularly anxious to start another stint in the cooler." He stood up with a wince of his own, one arm curled protectively around his torso. "Shall we, then?"

"Let's. This way," said Stephens, and winced again; sitting on the cold ground had done his bruised-but-not-quite-broken knee no favors. "Carabas, lad, if I could borrow an arm, I'd be grateful. I'm stiff as a board."

Carabas immediately offered it, and they set off, Stephens leaning as heavily on the younger man as his dignity would allow. Piper gave Newkirk a questioning look, crooking his own arm suggestively; Newkirk brushed coldly past him. The last thing he wanted, just then, was _more_ manhandling from that bloody Kraut. He'd had his turn at bat, and he'd taken every last swing to which he was entitled, and there was an end to it. Damned if Newkirk was going to accept any favors from him now that he wanted to salve his conscience—

But it was getting dark, and Newkirk stumbled over an exposed tree root, stifling a gasp as the motion jarred his ribs; Piper caught him. "Let me help," he said. "Please. It is not so far."

"I'll make it," said Newkirk brusquely, but he didn't pull away. Pride was one thing, and falling flat on one's arse was another. Cracked ribs that were making it difficult to stand upright, let alone walk, were another thing entirely. He leaned a bit more heavily on the other man.

"Yes. Of course," said Piper, and cast about for something else to say. "Your Deutsche… your German speech, it is very good. I would never have known you were an Englander," he offered in his best, if somewhat stilted, English.

"Yes, I noticed that little misapprehension," said Newkirk. "If we're trading compliments, I can say without 'esitation that your uppercut is at least as good as my German. Possibly better."

Piper flinched hard, and Newkirk sighed. Damn, damn, damn… the boy looked like a kicked puppy dog. He did not much appreciate finding himself feeling sympathy for the man who had spent the last couple of hours not only putting him through hell but arranging to send him there; being expected to pat him on the shoulder and say 'there, there' really put the tin cupola on an already inordinately unpleasant afternoon. Nonetheless, and completely despite himself, he softened. As LeBeau had long been aware, Newkirk's universe only contained two types of people. There were the ones who hurt him, and the ones he protected. Piper was no longer in the first category. That only left one other possibility.

With a wry, sidelong glance, he continued, "It's all right, lad. Really. No permanent 'arm done."

"I did not mean… I should have guessed—"

"Never mind that. You thought your mates were in danger, and you did what you could to save them, and when that went tits-up, you did what you could to avenge them. That's what a bloke's _supposed_ to do. If I'd been you, I'd've done far worse to me than either of you actually did."

"What?"

"Heh. If it were _my_ mates I'd seen taken away in that truck? If _I_ was asking the questions, you'd've been answering them as a permanent soprano. In fact, by the end, there likely wouldn't've been enough left of you to fasten the rope to, let alone bury afterwards. You didn't do anything like that, so don't fret so."

"You are very kind," said Piper.

Newkirk gave him a crooked half-smile. "I just finished saying I'd've cheerfully sliced your bits off with a dull knife, and you call me _kind?_ What sort of Rippers are you chumming about with? I was right the first time; you _do_ need some better mates."

Between the accent, the slang, and the rhetorical questions, Piper understood perhaps half of that, but he did recognize that he was being gracefully let off the hook. Stephens, who was listening intently while pretending he wasn't, understood far more, and not merely because of the language issue.

"I do want my blade back, though, if it's all the same to you," Newkirk said. "I understand about taking trophies, but I like that knife. Good balance."

"I do not have it; I believe Carabas does. He will give it back," said Piper. Then, with a hint of a smile, he ventured to add a postscript. "That is, he will give it back if you will promise not to, ah… slice off our bits with it?"

"Couldn't if I wanted to. Not with that one, at any rate. I said I'd've used a _dull_ knife, and I wouldn't carry a blade that wasn't sharp enough to cut a stiff wind into two gentle breezes. But let's see 'ow I feel when we get there."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The tiny cabin did not have a radio, which put an abrupt end to Newkirk's half-formed idea of letting his friends know that his mortal coil was not yet shuffled off, so they could safely remove the black armbands and postpone the wake. (And that, while they were at it, they could, should, and had damned well better put back anything they might have 'inherited' from his locker.) The cabin, in fact, lacked a good many things, including, emphatically, space for the sheer number of people currently inhabiting it. With a sigh, looking at the tightly packed mass of people curled up in ragged blankets on a floor that was probably exactly as soft as it looked, he spent a moment hoping that when, as was inevitable, he woke up with a stranger snuggling far closer than was at all necessary that it would at least turn out to be one of the girls, another moment reflecting that with his luck, it wouldn't be, and tried to remember that this was what victory looked like.

It was hard to keep that in mind, though, when the escapees all looked so damned haggard. So defeated. Twelve lives had been saved that day; he'd been able to take pride in that as he stood face-to-face with death. Now, in this ramshackle cabin, looking at their motionless, exhausted stupor, that number seemed suddenly meager, and far too paltry for pride. How many others _had_ died that day?

More than twelve; that was for certain. Twelve hundred? Twelve thousand? More? How many people, equally innocent, equally deserving of rescue, had he failed to save?

Vogel came over, carrying a field medicine pack. "I have some knowledge of wounds," he said, breaking into Newkirk's bitter reverie. "Please, allow me to see to yours."

"What? Oh. Yeah, that'd be nice. Thanks."

"It is, truly, the least I can do, after what you have done for me," said Vogel, and he meant it. "Come, the light is better in here."

While Newkirk, with no more than the acceptable amount of cursing and complaining that naturally accompanies the wrapping of broken bones when performed by people who don't actually know what they're doing, was safely out of earshot in the next room, the Underground leaders were discussing their strategy and his fate.

"…That is the question. He's already escaped, so far as the Germans are concerned," said Horner to Stephens. "Mightn't it be easiest if we just send him back to England with you?"

"I don't know. Getting the right buffoon put in command of that prison camp took some real effort, and a successful escape this early in his career might get him removed and replaced with someone with better connections. And a brain. We don't want that," said Stephens.

"No, I suppose not," said Horner. "Well, we'll just have to figure out how to bring him back to the prison without getting shot ourselves."

"We've any number of strapping young fellows who can play the soldiers tasked with bringing him back," said Stephens, dismissing that objection. "Pick the two most Aryan-looking boys you've got, put them in uniform, and tell them to sneer as much as humanly possible. They should be fine."

"Heh. I imagine they will enjoy that," said Horner.

"I do hope so; no one likes a dull war," said Stephens. "We will need a uniform for our young friend, too; that's going to be the trickiest bit."

"No, it isn't. We outfitted a few English escapees a month or so back. Their clothes might not fit him very well, but at least they'll be blue."

"Splendid. Then we're… we're all right," said Stephens, yawning halfway through the sentence, and blinked vaguely.

"Yes. Sleep, my friend," said Horner, snagging one of the least ragged blankets and tucking it around the British agent. "All will come right in the morning."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: As regards the number of innocents who had died that day, at this early stage of his espionage career, I'm assuming that Newkirk does not yet know anything about the Final Solution, and I wasn't meaning to hint at it. I don't want to shoehorn that into the tail end of a story like an afterthought. But he does know, in a general sense, that war costs innocent lives, and that it is an abomination.


	43. Chapter 43

In Horner's defense, he genuinely did try to get in touch with Hogan the next morning, when he was finally able to get back to his own house and his own illegal radio setup. It was not his fault that he was unable to make contact; that unenviable distinction could be definitively laid at Klink's jackbooted feet. A night spent not finding the fugitive, coupled with a morning spent failing to convince himself that his superiors didn't _really_ need to know about any of this, had left him in a state of impotent misery, which he was quite happy to share with anyone in his immediate vicinity, no matter which side of the war they were on. The guards, in turn, smarting under some very unkind observations, were not displaying their sunniest dispositions, which boded rather ill for any plans the prisoners might have had for the morning. In short, there was simply no chance for anyone to slip away long enough to monitor the radio, so the car pulling up to the gates during noon roll call was a surprise to all concerned. Not a welcome surprise, either.

The fine Aryan specimen who exited the car had sergeant's stripes, a truncheon, and a disarming smile. " **I believe we found something of yours, Herr Kommandant,"** he said smoothly. " **You didn't happen to misplace an Englander, did you?"**

Klink's face was a study. On the one hand, he was grateful that Newkirk had been found and his record preserved… and on the other hand, the fact that the Gestapo had been the ones to retrieve him meant that the Gestapo now knew that he'd lost Newkirk in the first place, a development he'd desperately hoped to avoid. The clash of emotions left him looking rather like a man who'd swallowed a rattlesnake, and then felt it wriggling its way back up.

Hogan had a few rattlesnakes making themselves at home in his gut, too, but he kept his composure as the second stormtrooper opened the back door of the car and hauled Newkirk—bruised, shackled, and subdued—out of it, and dumped him on the ground like so much garbage. Every prisoner in camp—even the ones who didn't especially know or like him—tensed, in fear, anger, or both.

Hogan took a deep breath, tried to think. Newkirk had been out of uniform and had been carrying no identification materials of any kind, so if the Germans knew that he'd escaped from this particular camp, he must have talked. God, that had been quick. What the hell had they _done?_ Hogan would have laid good money that, if it could be done at all, it would have taken more than an afternoon to crack the stubborn East Ender; so much for that assumption. The only question left was whether he'd told them anything more than his name; if he had, the rest of them were already as good as dead.

Wait a minute. Had they done anything at all? Newkirk had a nice set of bruises and his uniform looked like it had been caught in a moving propeller, but nothing that looked too bad, nothing even close to the usual Gestapo tactics…

All at once, the missing piece struck Hogan. Or, more precisely, the piece that should have been missing and wasn't. Newkirk had been out of uniform when he left camp. The only way he could have gotten another one was if the Underground had taken a hand in things; Hogan nearly gave the game away by grinning for pure relief. This was _not_ what it looked like. They still had a chance.

Newkirk was wearing the tattered remains of a British airman's uniform. And not his own, either. The jumper was mostly in one piece, except for a jagged rip in the neck where it looked for all the world as though he'd been seized by the collar and shaken, but the trousers had been artfully torn to hide the fact that they were a bit short in the leg, and the jacket was missing entirely, because they hadn't been able to improvise a set of stripes, and tearing off both jacket sleeves had been deemed unrealistic. The too-big cover was slipping rakishly over his eye, which was turning a delicate shade of purple. Only his boots—reclaimed from Stephens, who was not sorry to bid them farewell—fit the way they were supposed to, and they'd been in depressingly poor condition to begin with. He looked like a ragbag, but his own uniform wasn't actually much of an improvement, so Hogan discounted that. Far worse was the pain-wracked, defeated expression on his face as he struggled to his feet after an encouraging nudge from the toe of the second stormtrooper's boot, and Hogan could not be sure how much of that was real and how much was his admittedly good acting abilities.

Klink, with a sickly smile on his face, was still rambling something semi-coherent, apparently in his own defense, when the stormtrooper laughed aloud. " **No apologies necessary, Herr Kommandant! Chasing your little stray was the most fun we'd had in some time. Perhaps from time to time you would do us the favor of releasing one for us to hunt."** With a smirk, he deliberately turned his back on Klink, strolled slowly along the rows of prisoners. He stopped at LeBeau. " **This one is small, but perhaps all the faster for that** ," he said. " **Or maybe the big one; he looks strong enough to be entertaining. Or—what's this? An officer? Ah, now that would make for good sport!"** He leaned in, as if inspecting Hogan's physique more closely, and hissed under his breath, "Stephens is waiting for you in the tunnel."

Turning back to Klink, he smiled, with just the right mixture of pleasantry and menace. " **But that is for another day, and business must come before pleasure. I wish you a good day, Herr Oberst. And I must thank you again for the loan of your little mongrel; my men can always use more practice."**

With a few more courtesies on both sides, the 'stormtroopers' got back into their car and drove out of the camp. As the gates closed behind them, Klink turned his attention to Newkirk, still chained, still standing where he'd been left.

"Trying to escape, were you? Well, I hope you learned a valuable lesson," Klink huffed. "No one will ever escape from Stalag 13 while I am in command. Not you, not anyone, not ever! Is that clear?"

"Yes, Kommandant," Newkirk mumbled. For reasons of verisimilitude, they'd all agreed that the bandages needed to be removed before Klink could see them. His untaped ribs hurt too much to draw a deep breath, and it left his voice wispy and low. "It was daft of me to try."

"Daft indeed. Well, you'll have plenty of time to consider the error of your ways. Thirty days in the cooler on bread and water should prove instructive."

"Thirty days! Kommandant, that's cruel and inhuman! Look at him; don't you think he's already been punished enough?" Hogan pushed his way up close to Newkirk, and what he saw confirmed his suspicion; this was not mere theater. Or, at least, not entirely theater. He may have been rescued, but not unscathed.

"Colonel Hogan, I would be within my rights to have him shot. I am being generous. But perhaps you're right; not thirty days." He paused for effect. "Forty-five would seem more appropriate."

"Kommandant…!"

Klink cut him off with a waggled finger. "Don't tempt me to make it sixty, Colonel. Guards, take him away."

"At least let the medic see him!" Hogan stood his ground. "The Geneva Convention clearly states—"

"Oh, all right. Guards, you can bring the medic to his cell. Hogan, dissssmissed!"

Hogan, scowling concernedly for the look of the thing as Newkirk was led away, retreated to the barracks, with most of the others at his heels.

LeBeau was wrestling with a lot of contradictory emotions. Relief, of course, and a shock of joy searing each nerve like an ice bath, but along with it came a wave of anger, the sort that has far more to do with love and worry than anything else. I-was-so-scared-for-you segueing neatly into how-could-you-have-been-so-stupid with a dose of how-could-you-do-that-to-me for good measure. Newkirk, against all odds, was alive. But just then, LeBeau felt as though it was less a question of _whether_ he would make another attempt at changing that than it was of _when_ he would do so.

Some small, cold part of him was actually _glad_ that it would be at least forty-five days before he had to worry about that again.

Once Hogan was sure that there were no eavesdroppers, he beckoned to his core team. "Crisis averted. Stephens is in the tunnel," he said briefly. "Those fellows were on our side, it seems; I'm going down there to get some details about what the hell is actually going on around here. Kinch, keep an eye out for company, and run interference as best you can if any friendly neighborhood Nazis turn up. I might be a while."

"Yes, Colonel," Kinch said, and stepped aside as the Colonel tripped the mechanism hiding the tunnel entrance and climbed down. "Okay, Grant—watch the door. Franklin, window. LeBeau, you stay there, and be ready to close that thing up the second someone gets too close. Olsen, you look like the Colonel from the back; go to his room and pretend you're him taking a nap. The rest of you, mill around and pretend like everything's normal."

"We're up to our asses in trouble, Newkirk's in the slammer, and lunch was cabbage soup. Everything _is_ normal," said Grant, taking up his position.

"Good," said Kinch. "That makes pretending easier."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Stephens cleared his raspy throat. "…And that's what happened," he finished. "You know the rest of it; so far as the Third Reich is concerned, he ran for it, he was caught, they spent the night beating the truth out of him, and brought him back once they grew bored."

"Yeah, I noticed. How much of a beating are we talking about?"

"He'll live. Cracked ribs, a daisy of a black eye, and some scrapes and bruises. He was lucky." He chuckled. "I told him it was a mercy the boys had already taken care of it, or else we'd have needed to give him a few clouts ourselves, just to make it convincing."

Hogan grinned, remembering a more or less identical conversation. "Bet he loved that."

"About as much as you did, I suspect. I did hear him repeating it to Carabas when they were getting dressed, trying to make the boy feel less guilty, I suspect. It didn't help much, but it was a kind thought."

"I guess. But this whole fiasco started when he started coming up with kind thoughts that led to bigger problems. If he'd just followed my damned orders, none of this would have happened in the first place."

"If he'd followed your orders, half of the local Underground could well have been dead by nightfall, but I do take your point," said Stephens. "There were probably other ways this could have been handled."

"There have to have been," said Hogan. "He's a good man, and, God knows, a valuable one, but I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't have sent him back to London the first time. He's too prone to let his heart overrule his head."

"Well, if you don't want him, I'd be more than happy to take him off your hands," Stephens said. "He was born for this sort of thing."

Hogan blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Deathly so," Stephens said. "He's got the right instincts. Needs a good bit of seasoning yet, and I don't know that he'll ever be command material, but in the right team? Or as a solo operative? He's got potential I don't dare let go to waste. In five or six years, who knows? Perhaps he'll have _my_ job and I can take a ruddy holiday."

"You think this war will last another six years?"

"Almighty God forbid," said Stephens. "No. It can't. But if history teaches us anything, it's that there will always be another war after this one, and yet another after that. Espionage isn't particularly genteel, but it _is_ a necessity. Downing Street will always need men like him to help avert as many of those wars as possible, and to help us win the ones we can't avoid."

Hogan thought about that. Stephens was all but saying outright that he wanted to recruit Newkirk, not for a single operation, but for a _career_. It was more than he, Hogan, could ever hope to offer the man, and, if Stephens was right, it was a hell of a lot more than their one small operation could ever hope to accomplish. Of course, there were a few problems to be overcome… "Let's cut to the chase," he said. "I'm sure you've seen his dossier, and it's not exactly according to Hoyle. Are you sure that Downing Street would be willing to look past a few unsavory details of our friend's history?"

Stephens pulled a face. Then, in the accent he'd worked so hard to shed, he admitted the truth. "No bleedin' doubt about it, mate. The fact of the matter, Colonel 'Ogan, is that your lad wouldn't be the first guttersnipe, nor the first scoundrel what 'is Majesty found right bloody useful. 'E reminds me of me, and no mistake."

Hogan cocked his head. "Who are you, Stephens? I mean, who are you _really_?"

"I am whoever and whatever my king and my country need me to be," said Stephens, reverting to his fussily perfect diction. "As are you. So far as names go, 'Stephens' will do for now. It isn't the one my mother gave me, but you knew that. Perhaps one day I can tell you some of the others." He got stiffly to his feet. "At any rate, there's nothing more any of us can do at the moment. I need to disappear for a while, and so do several of my colleagues; it will take some time to do the necessary damage control, create new identities, and such. You might do well to lay low for a while, yourself. I will, of course, reestablish contact as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Stephens," said Hogan. "I'll be waiting."

LeBeau poked his head into the radio nook. "Colonel? Kinch was listening to the coffee pot; Klink is about to summon you to his office."

"Probably still has his swastikas in a bunch and wants someone to take it out on," said Hogan rolling his eyes. "The fun just never stops around here. LeBeau, why don't you walk our guest back to the exit while I go get ready for the show?"

" _Oui,_ _mon Colonel_ ," said LeBeau. "Gladly."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: And another layer of the mystery wrapped in an enigma wearing a tweed suit that is our friend Stephens/Nimrod is revealed. As I mentioned in other stories, in my own personal head-canon, Newkirk did in fact remain in the service and make a career of intelligence work after the war; perhaps Stephens was his handler.


	44. Chapter 44

When Hogan got to Klink's office, the first thing he noticed was that the Kommandant still looked miserably uncomfortable. His movements were stiff and awkward, as though he wasn't sure what to do with his hands and feet, or where to direct his gaze, and his voice was a bit strangled. He wasn't fearful anymore, though; almost… sad. If the rattlesnakes were no longer writhing in his belly, it seemed that they must have spit enough venom that he could taste it still. And it was bitter.

Hogan let the silence stretch for a beat or two, then prompted, "You sent for me, Kommandant?"

"Ah. You're here, Colonel Hogan," Klink said, and stopped.

"Sure looks that way. And nowhere else I'd rather be," said Hogan, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and not doing a very good job of it. "You sent for me, sir?"

"I… I've reconsidered. Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I'm reducing your man's sentence to the original thirty days," said Klink. "I think that should be enough of a lesson."

"Well, that's extremely magnanimous of you, sir!" Hogan wasn't being sarcastic at all, this time. Surprised, certainly, but not sarcastic.

"Yes. Well," said Klink vaguely. "I am tough… but fair."

"And I'm very grateful to you, sir. I know he will be too. But I'd like to speak with him; make sure he's not too badly hurt. As senior POW officer, I have the right—"

"Of course. I'll have Sergeant Schultz escort you there at once," said Klink, cutting him off before he could finish. Something unreadable flickered across his face for a moment, but he mastered himself. "Dismissed, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan gave a perfunctory salute. "Yes, sir," he said, as he walked to the door.

"Hogan…!"

He turned around, a questioning look on his face.

Klink didn't say anything for a moment. "We Germans… we're not monsters, Colonel Hogan," he finally said, in a low voice.

Hogan considered that. "I appreciate the clarification, sir," he said, when it became clear that Klink expected an answer. Impolitic and maybe foolish, especially given that Klink had, after all, just cut Newkirk's cooler time by a third, but Hogan just could not bring himself to make any warmer answer. He didn't have it in him to soothe a Nazi's aching conscience. Perhaps he might have been able to summon the compassion if he'd been a better man. Or perhaps just a better liar. But he wasn't, and he didn't particularly want to make the attempt.

Klink turned sharply to face the window. "Dismissed," he repeated.

Hogan never did learn what had made him change his mind. He never knew, and he never bothered to find out, and, frankly, he never gave it any real thought at all. Which was a pity.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Klink, as promised, had sent a guard to find the medic and bring him to the cooler; he had followed some little while later, for the express purpose of delivering a few scathingly well-chosen remarks intended to further impress upon the prisoner the futility of escape attempts. And perhaps some mild threats or gloating; he hadn't decided.

But the medic was still there when Klink arrived at the cell. The observation panel was open, and Klink was treated to a clear view of Newkirk, stripped to the waist, obviously in pain, and pale as wax. Wilson, a frustrated scowl on his face, was rummaging in his medical kit for a roll of bandages with which to wrap the cracked ribs. Neither of them were looking at the door, and didn't notice him standing there.

There was nothing to shield Klink from the sight of the horrible scarring on Newkirk's back, and he stifled a horrified gasp.

"Hang in there, Newkirk," Wilson said, patting him encouragingly on the shoulder as he began his work. "I'll have this done in a jiffy."

"Good times are always over too soon," Newkirk said through gritted teeth.

"This one won't be. It's going to take weeks for this mess to heal. What did they hit you with, a rifle butt?"

"Shovel," Newkirk grunted.

"A shovel? In the one month of the year it isn't snowing in this godforsaken country? What were they doing with it? Besides the obvious."

"It was use the shovel or leave me for the crows. And no one likes an untidy war," Newkirk said.

Wilson grimaced. "Sorry I asked. You know, Newkirk, I can always count on you when I'm in a cheerful mood. You can fix that in a _second_."

"Oh. Well, then. My 'umblest apologies, mate. Next time I come for a visit after being shot at, worked over, chained up, interrogated, taken for Mister Toad's wild ride in the boot of a car, marched to the gallows, and tossed into solitary cells operated by not one but two separate branches of the Kraut military, I'll be sure to make it all sound like a jolly picnic in the meadow for you."

"See, that's all I'm asking for. A little consideration for my delicate sensibilities. Thank you."

"Your sensibilities must be a lot more delicate than your 'ands. What are you trying to do to me? Break any ribs the Krauts missed?"

"Everyone's a critic. All I ever get from my patients is whining and complaints."

"Ever considered the possibility that there might be a bloody good reason for that?"

"Ever considered the possibility that I could suture your mouth shut?" Wilson tied off the last bandage and stood back to examine his work. "All right; that should hold you. We don't have much in the way of painkillers, but there's a little aspirin. Might help a bit."

"No. Save it for someone worse off," said Newkirk, predictably. "I'll manage."

"Okay. I want you to get as much rest as you can," Wilson instructed.

"Rest? I'm staring down the barrel of six straight weeks of rest. Or is there something _else_ to do in this crypt, and I just never noticed?"

"Even if there is, leave it alone. You're going to need most of those six weeks to get those bones to start knitting, and the more you jostle them the worse it'll be. You might never play piano again."

"Heh. That joke's older than you are. Right; no jostling. And when the guards start feeling the inclination to play a round of cricket, with me as the ball?"

Wilson shook his head helplessly. It did happen, after all; it wasn't even a particularly rare phenomenon. "I don't know what to tell you. Don't provoke them, all right?"

"I'll do my best," Newkirk promised. "Chin up, mate; I'll be fine."

Klink had gotten steadily paler as Newkirk had reeled off his litany of abuses, but that was the Gestapo, after all; what else could one expect? This was war, after all; certain… unfortunate excesses… had to be overlooked for the sake of the greater good.

Even in the privacy of his own head he couldn't make that sound convincing. But, he reminded himself fiercely, he could do nothing to stop them, and it wasn't as though he _personally_ was committing or encouraging any similar abuses.

Newkirk's matter-of-fact assumption that the stalag guards—Klink's underlings— Luftwaffe soldiers who weren't anything like those Gestapo lunatics— _Klink's_ own guards, would do anything even remotely against the rules of civilized warfare, rocked Klink to the core. And Wilson's resigned agreement with that assumption shattered him entirely.

That wasn't the sort of soldier Klink was. It wasn't the sort of man he wanted to command, or the sort of war he wanted to fight. It wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to believe his countrymen were even _capable_ of doing. And it wasn't the sort of thing he had any intention of allowing in his camp.

Klink turned blindly away, and slipped out of the cooler before either Wilson or Newkirk even noticed that he was there. Thinking hard. Trying to decide who he was, and balancing it against who he wanted to be. Minor questions like that have a tendency to spring up, unbidden, in dark places like the cooler. The questioner is rarely appreciative at the time.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan met Wilson as the medic was leaving the building.

"How is he?"

"He's being Newkirk. Cracked ribs, a bit shaken up, black and blue in places I didn't know it was possible to bruise, fat lip, big mouth, and be warned, he's going to tell you he's fine."

"Ah. He's going to turn me gray before my time, isn't he?"

"Why should you get off any easier than the rest of us?" Wilson shrugged comprehensively. "He'll be okay. Miserable for a few weeks, I don't doubt, but rest is what he needs more than anything, and at least in there he's not going to get sent out on work details."

"Silver linings. Okay, good enough. Thanks for patching him up."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks. See you later, sir."

As Hogan and Schultz penetrated deeper into the grim building, Hogan felt a sense of déjà vu. Another day, another cellbound heart-to-heart with a man he was increasingly sure he was never going to entirely understand. He turned to Schultz. "Say, Sergeant, would it be possible for me to get a few minutes alone with him? No offense, but it'd be a lot easier to talk without you and your two little buddies listening."

"Two? What two buddies?"

"Your swastika and that rifle," Hogan said. "Look, Schultz; I promise. You know I'm not smuggling anything in there, and I'm not going to try to help him escape, either. Just a few minutes, okay?"

Schultz looked down at his rifle with distaste; he could see Hogan's point, but rules were rules. "No, Colonel Hogan. I am sorry, but it is completely forbidden. It would be worth my life to leave you there alone."

Hogan rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulled out a bar of English chocolate. "Just a few minutes, Schultz. Who'd ever know? _I_ won't tell anyone."

He could see the war going on behind Schultz's eyes, and he was not disappointed with the outcome. Five minutes later, Hogan was opening the cell door, and, at the other end of the corridor, Schultz was opening his candy bar, and both felt that they'd gotten the better end of the bargain.

Newkirk was awake, although he looked as though he was reconsidering the wisdom of that, and he jerked to attention as Hogan slipped into the cell.

"Welcome back," Hogan said. "And congratulations. I hear that your little side mission was a resounding success, that Horner's got a very full house, that you saved a lot of lives, probably including ours, and if you ever pull anything like that ever again, so help me, I'll find something lower than erk to bust you down to."

"You sound just like my old CO. And the one before 'im."

"I'm going to send them sympathy cards. Seriously, Newkirk. Forget the fact that your little stunt was completely against my orders; it was practically suicide. What were you _thinking?_ "

Newkirk looked him straight in the eye, rueful but unapologetic. "That I couldn't just leave them there, sir. I couldn't leave innocents to die."

"This is war," Hogan said, throwing his own words back at him. "That means you will if you have to. No more wildcat operations, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," said Newkirk.

"Good. That said, I'd probably have done the same thing, and I sure as hell can't argue with your results. Except for the part where you look like hell. How are you feeling?"

"Like some utter bastard mistook my ribs for a set of xylophones," he rasped, gingerly putting a hand to his side. "And my 'ead for a kettledrum. But nothing that won't 'eal up in a week or two."

"I believe that Wilson said it would be more like five or six weeks, but who's counting, right?"

"Never you mind that. Wilson's padding 'is estimates, sir. Never knew a sawbones who didn't."

"Be that as it may, you'll have plenty of time to rest and recover," Hogan said as cheerfully as he could. He knew what he had to do. Hell, it was the only fair thing to do. But he thought that he was entitled to a few private regrets for what he was losing.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. I'm going to be here in the cooler for a month or three. Klink's idea of a rest 'ome. I'll try not to faint from the excitement of it all."

"No. Well, yes, at first, but that's not what I was talking about. You're not just getting sent to the cooler. You're getting sent back to England," Hogan said. "I worked it out. We'll get Klink to transfer you to some other stalag, the Underground will hijack your transport, they'll get you to the sub, and you can finish recuperating in London."

Newkirk looked anything but grateful. "You're _sacking_ me? Kicking me off the team?"

Hogan blinked. "Newkirk, I'm sending you _home_. You've earned it. You've done enough."

"Enough? I've barely started!" Forget 'not grateful.' He looked downright appalled. "Colonel, forget Wilson's bleeding rubbish. I'm sorry for all the trouble, sir, but I'll be back on my feet before you know it. Don't throw me out, sir."

"I'm _not_ throwing you out," Hogan said. "I don't get it. I thought you'd _want_ to go home."

"Not like this, I don't," Newkirk said. "Please, sir. I know I bollixed this last mission all to 'ell, but I'll do better, sir, I know I can—"

"Hey, take it easy!" Hogan ordered. "For crying out loud, you're not being punished. You're escaping! Getting out of this miserable place! Newkirk… I'm offering you your next breath, don't you understand that?"

Newkirk's mouth set in a stubborn line. "Offering or ordering, sir?" He glared at Hogan. "I told you once already; if you can do what you say you can do, it's something I want in on. I still want in on it. Blimey, sir; are you going to make me _beg_?"

Hogan stared at him, then grinned in honest delight. "If this is your idea of begging…! Look, Newkirk, Stephens had plans for you. He wants you in _his_ outfit; he thinks you could have a real career ahead of you."

Newkirk said something pithy and Anglo-Saxon under his breath on the subject of what Stephens could do with his plans, precisely loud enough that Hogan could not fail to hear it, and even more precisely low enough that he could pretend that he had not. "Sir. I didn't volunteer for this detail because it was _Stephens_ I trusted. If you want me gone, I'll go. But if you've any use for me 'ere… then, please, let me stay."

"If this is because you're somehow feeling obligated..."

"No sir. Not obligated to anything but winning this sodding war, sir," he said, his eyes boring into Hogan's. There was no doubt in the world that he meant it. "Way I see it, you're my best chance at making that 'appen. If you'll 'ave me, I'm 'ere for the duration."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: So far as I can tell, in canon, Newkirk never asks to go home. Ever. He does his fair share of griping, and of fantasizing about going home, but that's as far as it ever seems to go. Hogan greeted news of his reassignment with a less than dignified 'yippee,' Carter asked for a hardship discharge, LeBeau asked for a transfer to a combat unit, not once but twice, and Kinch… well, it's possible that he actually did leave. Newkirk, when flat-out ordered to escape, instead doubled back to make sure that someone for whom he felt responsible was safe. Which promptly blew up in his face, but no good deed goes unpunished. He never, ever asks to leave.


	45. Chapter 45

The man walking down Oxford Street had a slight limp, a stodgy gray suit, and the general air of someone who had been in his mid-forties since birth, and possibly sooner. Even in the face of wartime shortages and rationing, Selfridges, that cathedral of commerce, had, as usual, outdone itself with regards to the window displays, but he gave them no more than a cursory glance. He just walked into the department store with the preoccupied expression peculiar to husbands who are trying to remember precisely what it was that their wives had wanted with no particular hope of success. Forgettable and unremarkable, he meandered past displays of handkerchiefs and hand lotions, until he slipped through an unobtrusive door at the back of the store, where his entire demeanor shifted, sharpened. The limp was still there—he judged that it would be another two weeks before he was fully back on form—but the vagueness dissolved like sugar in tea.

The door led to a private lift that very few people knew was there, and he took it down to the basement, where a there was a bustling communications center, the beating heart of the war. He spoke briefly with one of the intelligence officers, giving an order that obviously struck the young man as strange, but he scurried off to obey nonetheless. Stephens never had to ask twice for anything he wanted, because he always had a good reason for his requests, even if those he dealt with did not have the requisite clearance to know just what those reasons were. In a tiny, unworthy corner of his mind, he took a bit of unholy pleasure in his unquestioned authority, particularly here, in this base, hidden in a store he would scarcely have dared enter in his younger and more disreputable days.

Stephens, who did not particularly enjoy sitting about doing nothing, busied himself with some of the reports on the man's desk as he waited for him to return, and frowned at what he saw. Something was going to have to be done about that Russian agent. She got results, no question there, but her _methods...!_

No, it simply wouldn't do. Making a mental note to have a chat with his Russian counterpart about curbing her enthusiasm, he moved on to the next batch of reports. He had time. Or, rather, he _didn't_ —he had twenty other things he needed to do, today if not yesterday—but he would make the time, anyway, and not grudge it if things turned out as he hoped they would. It would probably take the young officer some little while to find what he'd been sent for, but there were things that were too important to slough off. And people, too.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

LeBeau had gotten very good at waiting since arriving in the camp, and he resented it. Waiting for meals. Waiting for roll call. Waiting for the electricity to be turned on. Waiting for mail. Waiting for the war to end.

Waiting for Newkirk to get out of the damned cooler— _again_ —was nothing by comparison, and he told himself so at least once a day.

He hadn't gotten any better at convincing himself of things since arriving in the camp. He resented _that_ , too.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"The tunnel entrance is this way, Monsieur Stephens," he'd said politely.

"Thank you for the escort, Corporal LeBeau," Stephens replied. "I suppose that, given the circumstances, I oughtn't to say that it's a pleasure to see you again."

"Perhaps not. Given the circumstances, I cannot imagine that anyone has much pleasure in anything these days."

"Mmm. We do have the misfortune of living in interesting times, as the old curse would have it." Stephens looked at him sidelong. "I don't doubt that you were listening to the Colonel and myself."

"And why would you think that?"

"Two reasons. For one thing, you aren't stupid. And for another, neither am I. You were listening, so you might as well say whatever it is that you want to say to me."

LeBeau shrugged. "You plan to recruit Newkirk for other spy missions, _n'est ce pas?_ "

"Eventually. Well, probably not while _this_ operation is up and running, but eventually, yes. Or rather, I intend to make the offer," said Stephens. "No telling what he'll say in response."

"He'll accept," LeBeau said, with a glower. "And do foolish, brave things like this until someone puts him out of his misery. You may as well know this now."

"I see," said Stephens. "So that's how it is, eh? I had wondered as much. Chalking things up to sheer altruism is usually too easy an answer."

"It is. Perhaps you can do a better job than I of convincing him he still has something to lose."

Stephens adjusted his glasses. "Ah. Well, then. Perhaps I _can_ be of some help in that regard."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk, obediently, spent most of his thirty days resting, as ordered. Mostly because he needed it, but partially because he'd been ordered to do so, and he wanted it clearly understood that, (certain uncomplimentary notes in his record notwithstanding,) he did know how to obey. Almost immediately, he noticed, with some surprise, that he was being served his full rations; they were predictably scanty, and every bit as dreadful as always, but they were a far cry from the bread and water diet he'd been expecting. (As the old joke had it, the food in camp was horrible. Pure poison. And such small portions!) About six days in, though, he also noticed that none of the guards had 'accidentally' spilled any of it on the floor, not even the ones who usually took pleasure in doing so. And ten days in, reflecting on the fact that no one had laid so much as a finger on him since the cooler door had slammed shut behind him, he knew that this time, something was different. Somehow, it was getting better.

He didn't trust it, and he certainly didn't expect it to last, but might as well enjoy it while it lasted. Something was changing in Stalag 13.

Something _besides_ him. God, if anyone had told him that the day would come that he'd beg— _beg!_ —to be allowed to stay in this hellhole, he'd've laughed in their faces. Funny old world, and the joke was always on the poor sods who inhabited it, but you _had_ to laugh. And finally, God be thanked, he could. Just now, his cracked ribs made it hurt to laugh… but at last, at last, it was _only_ his ribs that hurt, and they'd mend soon enough.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

LeBeau was waiting by the cooler door when Corporal Hoffmeier led Newkirk outside. Newkirk, looking pale, pained, and pitiful, stumbled over the threshold. Hoffmeier steadied him as Newkirk, with a muffled groan that would have wrung tears from a boulder, tried to catch his balance.

After a moment, Newkirk recovered, nodded humble thanks, and trudged away, reaching LeBeau's side just about the time Hoffmeier turned the corner and vanished from sight. Which, naturally, was his cue to straighten up, smile cheerfully, and take Hoffmeier's cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "Allo, Louie," he said, offering them. "What's new?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes, and waved away the cigarettes. "Bravo," he said, flat and unimpressed. "Quite the performance."

"I try," said Newkirk. "It's good to see you, mate. What've I missed?" He smiled again, more awkwardly this time. Their last quarrel was very much on his mind, and he had no real idea where he stood. He'd chosen to brazen it out until the compass needle moved in one direction or the other, simply because he had no idea how else to proceed, which, he reflected, was a tendency that had gotten him into trouble almost as often as it had gotten him out of it. His friendship with LeBeau had started with the volatile Frenchman punching him square in the jaw; he only hoped that it was not about to end the same way.

"Ah, this and that," said LeBeau, with an uninformative shrug, and began walking away from the cooler. "There is a new man in the barracks. Transferred in from another stalag just last week. An American. He is your new bunkmate, in fact."

Newkirk followed. "That so? Seem like a decent bloke, or do we need to convince 'im that 'e'd like to move elsewhere?"

"No, no. So far, he has been nothing but pleasant," said LeBeau. The coast was clear, so, under his breath, he continued, "He is our new explosives expert."

"Well, the more the merrier, I suppose," said Newkirk at normal levels, then, quietly, "Good. We needed one of those. I take it our man in London arranged for the transfer?"

"Probably," said LeBeau. "And there is a rumor that we will be receiving new clothing, probably in a week or two."

"Now that _is_ good news," said Newkirk. "My pants are more 'oles than fabric."

"I know," said LeBeau. "The entire _camp_ knows. Last laundry day I mistook them for a fishing net."

They seemed to run out of conversation then, and they made their way across the compound in brittle silence.

Newkirk took a deep breath as they drew near to a good place for conversation; open enough that no one could sneak up on them and overhear, quiet enough that they could pretend they were in private. Time to roll the dice, one way or the other. "Oi, Louie. I wanted… I wanted to thank you for what you did."

"And just what might that be? I did nothing," said LeBeau. Nothing but respect his sacrifice; nothing but tend to the men he had so nearly died to save. Nothing but accept the inevitable and leave Newkirk to his fate. If Newkirk actually thanked him for that, LeBeau thought he genuinely might explode.

"You did everything. The lads I sent your way… they told me you were the one convinced the Colonel they were on the up and up. That you recognized what I was trying to tell you. It was a weight off my mind; I couldn't be sure you'd remember. _You_ saved them, as much as I did. More."

"How could I not remember those first terrible days? I only wish I _could_ forget some of what passed." Including, emphatically, the memory of a near-stranger in British blue literally throwing himself into harm's way when he, LeBeau, had lost his head and tried to settle scores with a prison guard. _Plus c'est la meme chose._

"You and me both, mate," said Newkirk. "I'm told that's what drinking is for."

LeBeau, tired of fencing, got to the heart of the matter. "You sent those people to me. Not to _le Colonel_. To me. You could have come up with something he would recognize; there was no need to hope that I remembered a joke three years stale. Why? Why me? What did you think I could do for them?"

"More than I could, if things went sour enough that they got to needing that password. But it 'ad to be you I sent them to see. Who else could I be absolutely sure would be there to find them at all? For all I knew, the Colonel might've been busy with Stephens, or just given me up for dead and gone back to camp for a kip. I knew _you_ wouldn't've."

"You knew this, you say?" LeBeau wasn't letting up an inch. "How could you possibly know this?"

"I just… did. Don't know much, mate. But I knew that. Because I know _you_. You'd've been there, because you'd never've scarpered without making sure I was either all right or past saving. You'd wait, no matter..." Newkirk paused, finished in an undertone, "No matter 'ow much better off you'd be if you didn't."

 _You are what you are. I should be used to it by now._

LeBeau remembered saying that in the heat of anger. It was still true.

The camps broke everyone. Everyone. It was only a matter of when and how. LeBeau, as much as he preferred not to admit it, knew that he was not the same man he had been before the war; was not even the same man he had been before his capture. He had cracked along the fault lines to which his life and his experiences had predisposed him; Newkirk could not justly be blamed for fracturing along his own, no matter how much his friends might have wished that they were otherwise. And, God, how LeBeau wished they were different... but they weren't, and some of those cracks were just too deep, too fundamental to ever be repaired, by LeBeau or anyone else.

The bitter truth was simply that he was what he was. There was no changing it now. The world had done a brutally efficient job of breaking Newkirk long before he'd ever heard a German voice or first glimpsed barbed wire; the camps had simply finished the process.

What might this man have been if life had been even the slightest bit kinder to him?

LeBeau looked away, scowled to cover his emotion, realizing that he was never going to know.

Then he let out a sharp breath, and the usual challenging gleam appeared in his eyes for the first time in days. " _Oui._ Of course I waited. You are a stubborn ass. Too stubborn to be killed as easily as that. And someone has to look after you."

"Takes one to know one, Louie," said Newkirk, his own eyes lighting up in response to that mocking challenge, and a hundred-ton weight sliding off his shoulders like magic. It was going to be all right; everything was going to be all right.

"Heh. This is true. If I were less stubborn, I would have long ago given up trying to discover some sign that you have a brain in your head." LeBeau snorted. "Perhaps it would be better for me if I had. Fortunately for you, I cannot resist a challenge."

"Fortunate, eh? That's one word for it, I suppose," said Newkirk.

"You are right. Perhaps 'miraculous' would have been better. My English teacher was not particularly good about imparting nuance."

"Your English teacher was getting 'is arse kicked trying to learn the slipperiest language God ever created at the time, if you recall. 'Alf the words sound alike, and the other 'alf sound like nothing on earth."

"But what a success you made of it," said LeBeau. "As you proved. Your German is good enough that you can pass for a native."

Newkirk made a face. "So it seems," he agreed. "Good enough that I can pass for a Nazi, anyway. There's a thought to ruin a pleasant afternoon."

"Ah, cheer up. I am sure it will come in handy." LeBeau smiled sweetly. "Perhaps someday you will learn French. You certainly haven't done that yet."

"If I need to infiltrate Vichy, you'll be the first I turn to for assistance in that area," Newkirk promised. "Maybe you can recommend a decent teacher."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The bit about Selfridges having a secret communications center in the basement is absolutely true; I don't know if the officers ever took a tea break to go wandering through a very ritzy department store, but I suppose anything's possible.

The joke about terrible food dates at least to the twenties, got a new lease on life in the forties when a great many soldiers found that army cuisine left something (and possibly everything) to be desired, and again when Woody Allen quoted it in his film 'Annie Hall.'

LeBeau's comment about 'plus c'est la meme chose' is part of an epigram that translates as 'The more things change, the more they stay the same.'

And yes, that's Carter who finally showed up. Better late than never, I suppose; maybe he'll get a line or two before we drop the curtain. Sorry, Carter fans; next time I'll try to write something where he gets more than a walk-on part.

By this time, Newkirk's French is a lot better than LeBeau will admit, which is not to say that he doesn't take some devilish pleasure in egregious mispronunciations for the fun of driving Louie into a 'polly-voo frenzy.' We do hear him really mangling the occasional bit of French on the show, but with his ear for languages, coupled with his gift for mimicry, I'm assuming that it was intentional. I would also like to reassure any Francophones out there that *I* am not the one who thinks French sounds like 'nothing on earth.'


	46. Chapter 46

As they approached the barracks, LeBeau stopped again. "Pierre… there is one other thing I wondered about. Something I wished to ask you."

Newkirk stopped too, cocked his head. This sounded serious. "Ask, then."

" _Le Colonel_ told us that you refused to go with Stephens. Why did you do that?"

"Because my work's right 'ere," said Newkirk, who didn't see what this had to do with anything. "Where else would I go?"

"Anywhere else but here, _n'est-ce pas_?" LeBeau didn't say the rest of it out loud, nor did he even think it to himself. Nonetheless, part of him was wondering, not about any plans Stephens might have had, but about any plans Newkirk might still be hatching. In short, he wondered if Newkirk was remaining in prison from some twisted sense of what he deserved, or because he was still trying to provoke the Germans into killing him. Judging by the mess Stephens had found himself in, getting killed in his line of work was not difficult. But it would no doubt be easier still inside the wire.

"No. Stephens can take 'is pick of every fingersmith in the Empire. Doesn't need me near as much as the Colonel does, and that's no boast nor brag. This is where my country needs me to be."

"You would still have been serving your country if you went with Stephens. Perhaps even more so. Stephens, it would seem, has a finger in every pie the Intelligence services has to offer."

"Bollocks to that. Cor, are you really that eager to see the back of me? My nan always said that patience is a virtue; tell Stephens that 'e can 'ave me in the _next_ war. I'm already booked for this one."

He didn't realize that, for the first time in years, he was talking about the future as though he expected— or, for that matter, _wanted_ — to have one. He didn't notice that he was talking like a living man, rather than a ghost haunting his own body. In fact, Louis didn't notice, either. They only laughed at the idea of an appointment calendar for a war, continued towards the barracks, and the moment passed.

It was not until much later that night, in that fey moment between waking and sleeping, where truth is often waiting to ambush the unwary, that it occurred to LeBeau that he'd never before heard Newkirk mention even the bare possibility that he would survive the war. Never once.

He smiled sleepily, tugged the threadbare and slightly fragrant blanket a bit closer, and went to sleep. They couldn't save themselves, so they saved one another. That was the underlying truth of their lives, and he was grateful for it. But it was a lot easier when the other fellow was willing to _be_ saved.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

A cooler release was always a happy occasion in the barracks, despite the fact that the returnee usually looked like hell and smelled worse. That never made any real difference; it was always a cheerful flurry of backslapping and witticisms, (or half-witticisms, as the case might be, but that made no difference either,) meant to ease the man back into the habit of human interaction as easily as possible. After days or weeks of silence, the crowded barracks could be overwhelming.

Not that Newkirk would ever admit to that, even if it were true.

His semi-regular returns from the cooler were usually more raucous than most. It was undeniably true that his presence helped keep things running smoothly; he had a gift for reading the room and adjusting the emotional temperature. The acerbic humor helped, too.

"Hey, look who finally showed up. How're you doing?" asked Kinch.

"As a strong man to run a race," Newkirk waved it off, comprehensively relegating a full month's worth of pain, punishment, and general unpleasantness to oblivion. "What've I missed?"

"Not much. Everything's about the same as it was when you left."

"Cor. That bad, eh?"

"You know it. We do have a new roommate," said Kinch, beckoning to a lanky young man in a bomber jacket.

The kid smiled brightly. "Hi, there! I'm Andrew Carter. I just got here a couple of days ago."

"Charmed. Welcome to the neighborhood," Newkirk said, looking the new guy up and down. Good God, the draft boards must have started raiding the high schools and boy scout campgrounds. Had this kid's voice even broken yet?

"You're Newkirk, right?"

"So it would seem," he said, after ostentatiously fishing his identity disk from under his jumper and pretending to read it. "What gave me away? My dashing good looks, or the fact that I'm currently caked two inches deep in cooler dirt?"

"Um. Well… neither, really. It's just that I'm your new bunkmate," said Carter, his enthusiasm undimmed. "And boy! The other guys have told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already."

"Oh, they did, did they?" Newkirk folded his arms accusingly. "I might've known they'd try something like that. Lies! All lies! Don't you believe a bleeding word they said; nothing but foul calumnies and unwarranted slanders. Trying to blacken my name."

"Blacken your name? _Yours?_ How is that even _possible?_ " asked Olsen.

"Case in bloody point," Newkirk snapped, mock-glaring at him. "What in blazes did you tell this poor lad about me?"

"The truth, actually," said LeBeau. "Every word of it richly deserved."

Newkirk's eyes widened, horrified, and he clasped a theatrical hand to his heart. "The _truth?_ You told 'im the _truth?_ Cor, that's worse than any slanders could be, and well you know it! Some friends you are!"

Carter, his own eyes like saucers, tried to fix things. "Gosh—please don't get mad! Everything they said was really nice, honest; it was!"

"Oh? So which is it, mates?" asked Newkirk, not mollified in the least. "Did you tell the truth, or were you nice? We all know it couldn't've been both."

"You're right. Let me introduce you again," said Kinch. "Someone should set the record straight. Carter, this is Newkirk, our own personal cross to bear, and he's only teasing you. If you want my advice, you'll ignore half of what he says and take the other half with a very big grain of salt."

Carter blinked. "Oh. Which half is which?"

"Nobody's ever quite sure," said Olsen. "But guessing's half the fun."

Newkirk grinned. "And watching you lot try—and fail—to guess right is 'alf the fun for _me_. Welcome to our 'appy little family."

"Um… thanks," Carter said, still a bit uncertain as to exactly what had just happened, but still game. "Anyway, they said you like the top bunk; is that right? I'll take whichever one you don't want."

"I do prefer the penthouse. Better view from up there," Newkirk agreed.

"Okay. Felix is up there right now, but he doesn't care where he sleeps."

"Felix?" Newkirk craned his neck to confirm his initial impression; sure enough, apart from a hat, the bed was, or at least appeared to be, entirely unoccupied. "You say someone called Felix is on my bunk?"

"Yeah. But like I said, he'll sleep anywhere. He slept in my pocket all the way here."

Newkirk glanced back at the empty bunk. There seemed to be two possibilities. One was that Felix was imaginary. The other was that Carter had named his hat. Neither boded well. A mad bunkmate was one thing; he'd had wire-happy neighbors before this and managed quite nicely. A mad bombmaker, on the other hand, sounded like five different kinds of bad idea.

"Felix is my pet mouse," Carter continued, blissfully unaware that his sanity was being severely questioned. "I found him when I was in Stalag 5, and of course when I was told I was being transferred, I had to bring him with me."

Make that _six_ different kinds of bad idea. It was Newkirk's turn to look nonplussed. "You brought a mouse with you from Stalag 5? On purpose?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Were you somehow under the impression that there mightn't be vermin enough running around the place already? Aside from the ones in charge, that is?"

"Well, Felix is my little pal; you didn't think I was going to leave him there all alone, did you?"

"Oh, good 'eavens, no. The thought never so much as crossed my mind," said Newkirk. "But if you'll pardon my asking, does Felix really need an entire bunk to 'imself? More to the point, does 'e need _my_ entire bunk?"

Carter laughed. "No, of course not. I'll get him a box or something to live in."

"Fair enough. I'll share with humans if I must, and we're all going about with our own personal lice colonies more or less continually, but a bloke's got to draw the line somewhere, and rodents are well over that line, so far as I'm concerned."

"Aw, don't be so hard on him. He's a very nice mouse. I just know you two will like each other once you get a bit better acquainted."

Newkirk, who, for most of his life, had, quite unwillingly, shared his quarters with more mice and rats than he even wanted to think about, seriously doubted that he and Felix were destined for lifelong friendship. "Oh, no doubt. Always a treat to 'ave good neighbors, innit? I think we've got friends in common, in fact; there's a lovely little chap who lives under the stove. Chewed 'oles in my mattress to make 'imself a nest, and left droppings all over the blanket to boot."

"Well, you can't blame Felix for that. You know how it is; there's always a member of the family that no one likes to talk about," said Carter, straight faced. "Everyone's got that one embarrassing uncle, or an awful sister in-law, or something. In my family it was cousin Albert. Did you have someone like that?"

"Not that I recall," said Newkirk, who didn't really feel like discussing any of the myriad skeletons in his family closet. In either sense. Roughly half of his extended family was awful, and the other half was dead. He didn't like to talk about either half.

"Huh. My grandfather used to say that, if you didn't know which one it was, it was probably you," said Carter, still with that innocent, goofy grin… and a glitter in his eye that made it clear that he knew _precisely_ what he was saying. Carter was willing to play. He didn't mind a bit of friendly teasing, so long as it went both ways. This, that glitter said, was a test to see if it really was friendly teasing or outright bullying.

There wasn't any actual malice in that glitter, so far as Newkirk could tell, and he was a good enough sport to admire the way Carter had walked him right into the trap and sprung it. The rest of the barracks, judging by the sniggering, admired it too, but he ignored them in favor of examining this wet-behind-the-ears Yank a bit more closely.

He honestly seemed innocent, in a way that was achingly familiar, and he was, Newkirk would bet, quite genuinely goofy. What he was not, was stupid.

Maybe this wouldn't turn out to be such a bad idea after all.

Newkirk let the other prisoners enjoy Carter's swipe at him for another moment. Then, as the laughter ebbed, he gave them a jaundiced, wry look, and said, "So you rotten bastards _did_ tell this poor boy the truth about me, after all. I'll get you for that." Turning his attention back to Carter as the other prisoners laughed all over again, he smiled with just a few too many teeth. "That's as may be, my friend. But without us what no one in the family likes to talk about, what would you 'ave to talk about at all?"

Carter bit his lip, pretending to think about it. Yes, this was friendly teasing, and the game was on. "Um, I dunno. Well, there's always the weather, I guess?"

"We can dispose of that in ten words or less. Round these parts, the weather's always awful, except for the days when it's ungodly."

"Hey, that's a lot more than ten!"

"Never claimed to be any good at maths. Well done, Jimmy; I swear, you'll be the death of me," Newkirk said.

Carter cocked his head quizzically. "Um, sorry, my name's Carter. Or Andrew, if you'd rather. I mean, I don't care which one you use, either one's fine, but my name's not Jimmy."

Newkirk's expression froze for a split second, then he grinned, with an elaborately casual shrug. Just as if that had not been the most Freudian slip that had ever slipped in the history of slipperdom. "I don't care if your name's Aloysius Nebuchadnezzar the fifth, you'll still be the death of me." He looked over at his bunk, where the mouse was still sleeping the sleep of the just in Carter's hat. "And your little mate will probably 'elp."

It was obvious to anyone who knew him that Newkirk had, metaphorically speaking, just plastered a sign to Carter's back. The same sort of sign he'd slapped on LeBeau, and Kinch, and any number of others over the years. The same sign he'd pinned to his sister's pinafore. In large, red, flashing neon letters, it said **MINE** , and that was that; as of that very moment, anyone who wanted to do Technical Sergeant Andrew Carter any harm was officially going to have to go through Newkirk to do it.

At least at first, how much of that was for Carter's own sake and how much was for Jimmy's was debatable. How much of that instant camaraderie might have existed anyway (and it probably would have,) was a moot point. The plain fact of the matter was that Carter had found his place in Newkirk's mental classification of the world, and there was no changing it.

Jimmy had been two years older than Newkirk, and had been the little brother of their entire crew nonetheless. Carter, (who, despite being an inch taller and two pay grades above him, had, as a blind man could see, just achieved the same status,) was _not_ two years older than Newkirk.

He was three years older.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Newkirk's line about running a race is a Bible quote. Psalm 19. 'Like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, [the sun] rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race.' Mildly snarky and perhaps a tad irreverent, but he means that everything is absolutely peachy keen, and to stop asking about the cooler.

The relative ages of Newkirk and Carter are from a Wiki I found online. (And their heights are from the bio section on IMDB.) I don't know where this Wiki got their dates, and it's entirely possible that it was pulling them straight out of thin air, so take that for what it's worth. But according to the Wiki, Newkirk was the youngest of the heroes by a good couple of years, and I liked the contrast. Newkirk grew up too fast, because he had to. Perhaps that's part of why he responds so well to Carter, who was lucky enough to be able to retain some of the innocence Newkirk never had a chance to experience.

Innocent, but, like I said, by no means stupid or even childish. And certainly not about to take any crap from anyone. I did say I'd try to get him (and Felix) at least a few good lines of dialogue before we wrap things up.


	47. Chapter 47

The next couple of months were entirely unremarkable. Oh, there was some excitement in the world outside the wire—a bridge or two blew up, forty-three POWs returned to their own sides, (although, as Klink gloated ad nauseam, his own no-escapes record continued intact,) and the occasional stretch of railroad track turned out to be rather thoroughly mined—but what had any of that to do with the inmates of Stalag 13? No, life inside the wire continued along its familiar paths. Roll call, bad food, mind-numbing boredom, meaningless arguments, a Glee Club that was more or less devoid of both glee and musical ability, a little petty theft here and there, more roll calls, speeches from Klink, periodic delousing, work details, and a campwide volleyball tournament that, for reasons both complex and inane, devolved into a donnybrook of near-Biblical proportions. Casualties included seventeen black eyes, (nine of them belonging to guards, because sometimes a little chaos is just too good an opportunity to waste,) two sprained wrists, eleven fat lips, and the confiscation of the volleyball for the foreseeable future.

The six minutes of pure pandemonium, somewhat mysteriously, coincided almost exactly with the disappearance of a visiting general's briefcase, which led to another ten minutes of a very different kind of pandemonium. Fortunately for all concerned, further investigation of the matter located the briefcase, which had apparently been securely locked in Klink's safe the entire time, and the general, somewhat mollified, left without shooting anyone, after all.

Presumably, the later discovery of a small but rather ingenious incendiary device wired into the clasp of the briefcase, which had conveniently been emptied of all that pesky paperwork, did little to improve the general's mood, but on the bright side, he didn't have to worry about it for too long. And neither did the other passengers in his staff car.

A truly nailbiting game of Go Fish was in full swing in Barracks Two one sunny afternoon—it had come down to Carter versus Olsen, with some nine hundred theoretical dollars in the pot and considerably more than that in the side bets between the onlookers—and Carter had just, with some satisfaction, drawn the six of hearts that he needed on his first try, to the audible disappointment of Olsen's cheering section.

Schultz, at that interesting juncture, opened the door and waddled in. "Raus, raus, everybody out! Special roll call in five minutes!"

" _Another_ roll call? Schultzie, we just had one less than two hours ago," Olsen complained. "Look, we're all here, I promise. Hey, Carter, got any nines?"

"Fine. I do not want to know if you are _not_ all here," Schultz said. "I do not want to know, and please do not tell me."

"Nope. Go fish. Okay, Schultzie, we won't tell you," said Carter. "We'll just stay in here, how's that sound?"

Schultz smirked. "That is _also_ fine," he said smugly. "You stay in here, and do not come to the special roll call. And _I_ will not give you your mail. How does _that_ sound?"

"Mail? Mail! Hey, everyone! Raus!" Kinch shouted, cutting through the excited hum. "Roll call! On the double!"

"See, when _he_ says it, it sounds better, Schultzie," said Olsen, cramming his hat on his head as the prisoners all hurried to the door. "Next time, try saying it like _that_."

"You think maybe it's that dumb German accent?" asked Mills.

Newkirk cleared his throat theatrically. "Well, let's see, shall we? 'Raus, raus! Rholl call in fiiiiive mee-nutes,'" he mimicked, in Schultz's voice, then repeated it in Kinch's. "Hmm. Mills, you might be on to something there."

"Hmph. Jolly jokers," Schultz muttered, leading them into the compound.

Newkirk and LeBeau's eyes met for a moment, and both looked away. Their last mail call had been unpleasant in pretty much every way possible, and the aftermath thereof had been worse, and neither of them wanted to broach that subject quite yet. There was no help for it, though; both of them took their positions in the formation.

The bulging mail bag over Schultz's shoulder took even longer to empty than it had the first time, and this time there was something for nearly everyone. Not Carter, who hadn't been there long enough for any mail to have caught up with him. Not Sam. Not a few others, sprinkled throughout the barracks. But nearly everyone. Including Kinch. Including Hogan. Including LeBeau.

And including Newkirk.

Newkirk, stunned, stared at the envelope in his hand. Slowly, like a man in a dream, he examined the direction, noting every curve of the familiar handwriting. "She's alive," he half-whispered. "She's _alive._ Mave is alive!" For a moment, a single moment, his face was completely unguarded. His eyes burned with too many emotions to differentiate. "She's alive!"

LeBeau, his own precious letters clutched tightly in his hand, felt a tugging at the corners of his mouth, and a prickling in the corners of his eyes. "I am so happy for you, _mon pote_ ," he said, ignoring both sensations.

Newkirk, still stunned, rounded on him. "I never wrote to 'er. Wouldn't know where to send it if I'd wanted to. 'Ow could she've known to write? 'Ow could she know I was even _alive?_ "

"Stephens found her," LeBeau said. "He is supposedly with the Red Cross; this made it plausible. He told her that he had seen you on an inspection tour, and he told her where you were. I… I asked him to do so."

"Oh, you did, did you," said Newkirk. The words were almost exactly the same ones he'd used to tease Carter on their first meeting, but this time around, there was none of the pretended anger. There was no real anger, either, for that matter; his voice was flat, and his expression had slammed shut like a cooler door. His face was not merely guarded but nearly lifeless.

 _If she's done her grieving once, once is enough. Pulling a Lazarus on the poor girl's not on, not when my odds are what they are._ That, LeBeau suddenly realized, had not been a joke, and it had not been entirely altruistic, either. London was still a target, and the East End doubly so. Newkirk genuinely had not wanted to know whether Mavis was still alive, because it was all too possible that she was not. And he had not wanted her to know that he was alive, either, for the same reason. He didn't have the strength to lose her a second time, which was still a definite possibility. And he had not wanted her to have to go through losing him a second time, either, which he'd considered more or less a certainty. If she'd mourned him once, that was enough. But he'd mourned her once, too. And now there was a very good chance that he'd have to do it twice.

LeBeau had wanted to show Newkirk that he had things—people—to live for. Well, he'd shown him, all right. But the price of having something to lose is the risk of losing it. The price of having someone to love is the chance of being hurt. The price of being alive is the prospect of death, and Newkirk had only recently relearned to fear it.

It was LeBeau's turn to remember that he'd begun their friendship by hitting Newkirk in his most vulnerable spot. And to wonder if he'd just ended it the same way.

"Well, then," said Newkirk, slowly, still in that stony, ominous tone. He didn't get choked up; he was English. "Well. I'd never've done that. I… I suppose I owe you one, mate."

"As if we kept tallies of such things, _mon pote_ ," said LeBeau. He was not English, and his eyes got a bit misty. "It was your turn. _C'est tout_."

Newkirk nodded, and opened the envelope. The letter had been folded around a photograph of a pretty young woman with dark, wavy hair, and he looked at it with something approaching reverence. "I guess this is Mavis. Cor. She wasn't much more than a kid when I left London. I don't know as I'd've even recognized 'er if we'd met on the street."

" _I_ would have," LeBeau said definitively. "She looks very much like you. But attractive."

"Well, you can look at the photo as much as you like, then, because it's the closest you're ever going to get to our Mave. You've told me too much about your lady friends, and no sister of mine's going to be another notch on your stewpot."

"You're just jealous," said LeBeau, with a superior smirk and another glance at the photo.

"After the better part of three years without so much as seeing a pretty bird, I'm past jealousy," said Newkirk.

"And precisely what of the last three years would you call the 'better' part?"

"What do you think? It's like they say; you go to 'Eaven for the climate, but you go to 'Ell for the company," said Newkirk.

LeBeau smiled faintly. That, he knew, was probably the truest compliment he would ever receive. Sentiment did not come easily to Newkirk, but that didn't mean his emotions didn't run deep. And they did, dear God, they did. Too deeply. He veiled his feelings with jokes, or anger, or sacrifice, letting his actions speak for him, perhaps because words came to him too easily for him to ever entirely trust them.

 _I am your friend. Perhaps some day that will mean something to you._ LeBeau had said that, and had walked away without waiting for an answer.

He had one now.

Newkirk answered the faint smile with one of his own; it was enough. Louie understood. Looking back down at the photo, he continued. "It was our Mavis who really pushed me to enlist, you know. For King and Country, right enough, but for my own good, more than anything else. I wasn't always on the right side of the law when I was younger, you know. Oh, I could make excuses—we were dirt poor, all alone, the rent needed paying, we 'ad to eat, I couldn't always _get_ 'onest work, and so forth—but none of that would've mattered to the peelers, and it ruddy well didn't matter to Mavis, either." He made a sound that might almost have passed for a laugh if there had been any humor in it. "She was deathly afraid that if I kept on as I was… I'd end up in prison. 'Ow's that for irony?"

LeBeau stared at the nothing over Newkirk's right shoulder for a moment. What was there to say, after all? It was grossly unfair, and yet somehow exactly what one would expect. Newkirk's ability to wind up with the short end of the stick was positively uncanny.

Involuntarily, he felt his lip twitch. Horrified at himself, he tried to stop the laughter bubbling up inside him. What was wrong with him? This _was not_ funny. It was ironic; horribly so. Cruelly so. His friend was sharing his pain—what sort of monster was he becoming that he could find humor in that?

A split second before the laughter could overpower him entirely, Newkirk hissed like a kettle boiling over, and dissolved into laughter himself. LeBeau started laughing, too; the two of them howled until tears were streaming crazily down both their faces and they were leaning on each other, gasping for breath. It wasn't funny; it was ironic. It was cruel. It was the last straw. But the laughter was real, because one way or the other, it was going to end with tears; this way was simply the more cathartic.

As the last few chortles subsided, and they were able to straighten up and wipe their eyes, LeBeau shook his head. "Ah, _mon Dieu._ Come. Tell me about her," he said.

Newkirk gave the photo another look. "She's a good girl," he said. "Kindhearted. Smart as a whip, too. _She_ finished school, you know," he said with raw paternal pride in his eyes. "I saw to that. She wanted to quit, get a job, 'elp out some, but I wasn't 'aving any of that. And the one time she tried light-fingering something from the shops… well, I wasn't 'aving any of that, either. If she tried it a second time, she'd've best 'oped that the peelers got to 'er before I did. She's better than that, and I bloody well made sure she knew it." He cocked a rueful eyebrow, and didn't spell out the implications of that. _She's better than_ ** _me,_** _and I made sure she knew it._ Instead, he added, "Doesn't drop 'er H'es, neither. Saw to that, too. She's going places, she is."

LeBeau smiled, just a bit sadly, and ignored the unspoken corollary. "She sounds wonderful. You are _certain_ that I cannot meet her someday?"

"Entirely certain," said Newkirk. "And that's for your sake as much as 'ers. She'd eat you for breakfast. In fact, Louie, I remember this one time, she couldn't've been more than eleven or twelve…"

And he talked, like a dam overflowing its borders, for some time. Things Mavis had said when she was small, things they had done as she was growing up, things he hoped for her as a young woman. LeBeau didn't need to say much, and he didn't bother trying. He just made encouraging noises in the right places, let Newkirk ramble, and basked in the unguarded love in Newkirk's voice, and the rare feeling of peace emanating from the man. LeBeau had once been caught by a particularly overzealous guard, and had spent three endless minutes hanging by his thumbs being screamed at. He could still remember the glorious feeling— half relief, half agony— that had flooded him when the ropes were cut and he hit the floor, with the blood surging back into his abused hands like a miniature resurrection.

Newkirk, whether he wanted to admit it it or not, had been dangling for nearly three years, LeBeau reflected. It was more than time to cut the rope and let him down.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Newkirk, in the show, has a photo of a girl with dark hair, usually in his footlocker, although I think it was pinned up by his bed a few times, too. It is the only thing we see him take with him when he was about to be transferred; he takes it out of the locker and tucks it securely into his pocket, abandoning everything else. Either it's a girlfriend who means a very great deal to him... or, and I do think this is the likelier scenario, it's Mavis.

Newkirk's wisecrack about Heaven and Hell has been attributed to several authors, including the American Mark Twain and the British James Barrie, as well as other writers who predate them both. Seems like it's just one of those clever aphorisms that everyone knows somebody once said, and it's probably more of a cliche than a quote.

LeBeau says in the show that he'd once been strung up by the thumbs; his manual dexterity seems unimpeded, so I'm assuming that it wasn't for very long. One certainly hopes not, in any case. Those three minutes probably felt like three years, and those three years probably felt like eternity.


	48. Chapter 48

By the time Newkirk had talked himself out—a phenomenon many of his acquaintances would have considered physically impossible, if not a sign of the impending apocalypse—the shadows were lengthening. He took one last deep breath, and let it slowly out, like a runner trying to ease himself down from a sprint. "Cor. Look at me, talking the rear legs off a donkey again," he told LeBeau. "Why'd you let me rabbit on so, instead of giving me the ding 'round the ear I deserve?"

"Perhaps some other time," LeBeau said, not meaning a word of it. Newkirk talked a lot, it could not truthfully be denied, but it was not often that he came out so openly and actually _said_ what he needed to say. Perhaps he felt that doing so honestly merited having his ears boxed. Perhaps he felt as though he did not have the right to need, to be weak, to be _human_. If so, he was alone in that opinion, and LeBeau rather thought that he knew it. It had taken a while. But Newkirk knew it now.

Carter, his hands stuffed in his pockets, walked over to where they were sitting. "Hey, there you are!" he said under his breath. Only Carter could pronounce exclamation points in an undertone. "I've been looking all over for you guys. The Colonel wants to talk to everyone."

"Camp's not that bleeding big. Looking 'all over' would take, what? Five minutes? Ten?"

"Well, it _feels_ a lot longer than that when there's an officer looking at his watch and tapping his foot," Carter defended himself. Then, with his usual combination of acute insight and obtuse tactlessness, he said, "Hey, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No," said Newkirk, in a voice that not only brooked no dissent, but rivered and oceaned no dissent, either.

"And even if you were, let us not leave the officer tapping his feet longer than we must," said LeBeau with his most charming smile, sliding them gracefully past the danger zone. "I hope nothing is wrong?"

"Nah, he looked 'good' excited, not 'uh-oh, we're in for it now' excited," said Carter, who looked pretty excited himself.

"And that would be a lot more reassuring if the Colonel's idea of 'good' excited didn't usually lead to Klink getting 'thirty days in the cooler' excited," said Newkirk, as they reached the barracks door.

"Look on the bright side," said LeBeau. "We have nearly finished our tunnel into the cooler, so I will be able to visit you from time to time. Perhaps I can even bring you food, if there is any left over."

Newkirk shot him a Look. "Friends like these," he muttered, unable to entirely mask a wry smile. _Friends like these, indeed_. He opened his locker, carefully stowing the precious letter in the till as Hogan opened the door and beckoned the team into his office.

Hogan positioned himself by his desk as the others ranged themselves around the room. "Right," he said, his eternal air of suppressed exuberance a shade or three brighter than usual. "Seems like our beloved Kommandant is going to be having some very exalted company tomorrow night."

"Don't tell me the waitress at the biergarten's finally given in," said Newkirk. "Poor girl!"

"Not _that_ exalted," said Hogan. "Think a lot less attractive."

"Has Satan come to collect him already?" asked Kinch.

"Wrong again. But closer," said Hogan. "Think even _less_ attractive."

"Some high-ranking Kraut," said Carter, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"Bingo," said Hogan. "A member of the general staff, no less."

"Ugh," said LeBeau, revolted. "He is coming here? To see Klink? That means I must cook for him, _n'est-ce pas?_ "

"Which means the rest of us have to be waiters," said Kinch, not much more enthused.

"Which means I sneak off between the soup and the meat courses and break into 'is briefcase," finished Newkirk. "Cor, I do 'ope it's not chained to 'is wrist this time."

"Very good, wise guys," said Hogan, who was slightly put out that they had intuited his plan so easily… and simultaneously so proud of his crew that he could have burst. "I've got a stalag full of Sherlock Holmeses; lucky me. But don't get cocky! There's a bit more to this than a simple smash-and-grab. The first thing we're going to need to do is this…"

And they went over details with a fine-toothed comb; discussed and strategized and rehearsed in the hope that, when the time came, they could act, not as five separate individuals, not even as one cohesive team, but as five fingers on a single hand. They weren't quite at that level of coordination, actually. Not yet. Not the way they would be, a year or so down the road. But they were getting there.

The rest of the evening was a pleasant one. They all drank terrible ersatz coffee and ate very good apple strudel; they discussed extremely ambitious plans for future missions and shared anecdotes that were, if not strictly true in all particulars, at least entertaining. And when the electricity snapped abruptly off, they only grumbled a bit before retreating to their bunks, with the customary vague hopes that the rickety beds would not choose _that_ night to finally collapse. The inhabitants of the lower bunks especially hoped it.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan's mission reports were, obviously, sent in code. Several layers of it. Morse code for the actual transmission, naturally. And secret codes meant to confound any unauthorized listeners with a radio and too much curiosity. And a dusting of what Stephens thought of as Hogan-speak, which did its best to normalize the contents of the reports for his superiors. To veil the unorthodox and the untoward in a soothing mist of words that meant precisely what they said… and just the slightest bit more than that.

The report on the dinner party caper was a masterpiece of its kind; Stephens smiled more than once while reading it. The mission had been a success, and the information they had retrieved would save a great many lives. Even at that early date, he'd learned to expect no less from the Goldilocks crew. And yet.

There were several carefully worded phrases about 'initiative,' which probably meant that one or more of the men had gotten a little over-ambitious, and one vague reference to 'extreme provocation' that usually meant that the Germans had not been playing entirely by the rules of civilized warfare, to say nothing of the 'above and beyond the call' which had to mean that someone was currently counting bricks in the solitary cells.

But the worst was the bit about 'unforeseen circumstances' that had led to the implementation of a 'modified contingency plan.' That meant things had gone utterly pear-shaped, and Hogan had been forced to improvise. Which was, to give credit where it was due, the man's strong suit, if not outright genius, but which, to be brutally realistic, was probably not sustainable for any real length of time.

All the delicate phrasing in the world could not hide the unadorned facts of the matter. They—by which he meant the Goldilocks crew, the Allies, humanity as a whole—could not save themselves, because no one ever could. They had chosen not to let that stop them; instead they saved one another, and they saved the rest of the world along the way.

Nimrod only hoped that he could return the favor.

Fin.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The convention of flashing 'Fin' (French for 'the End') was common, particularly in pre-war European films. That, by my reckoning, makes it an entirely inappropriate way to end this story, because, as I'm sure you all recognize, this isn't the end. It's barely the beginning. Hogan hasn't entirely hit his stride yet. Most of the tunnels aren't complete. Olsen hasn't yet taken on his role as the outside man, and the whole operation is just starting to come together. There's a lot more they've got to do, and learn, and experience... but they're finally on their way to being the people we saw on the screen, and that was the story I wanted to tell.

I have Newkirk comment in another story (Let Nothing You Dismay) that his life ended when he was brought into the camp. And that LeBeau had been there when it began again, with the implication that LeBeau had been, not simply a witness, but a catalyst thereof. Decide for yourself which of the crisis points they weathered together was the true resurrection, if there was any one point at all.

I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.


End file.
